To begin: my father, a worthy man and a sincere Christian, was a _Chef de Division_ at the Préfecture. A sudden illness bereft me of his care when I was barely fifteen years old. My mother, my young sister, and myself were left in quite limited circumstances, being wholly dependent on the rent of this small house, which had belonged to the family many years. Some time after, a pension of five hundred francs was added to our income by the government which my father had faithfully served. Our position was very sad, and the more so because, during my father’s life, we had everything in abundance. But our misfortunes offered us a thousand inducements to draw nearer to God. It is only ill-balanced souls—at once proud and weak—that disregard him who chastises them. Poor souls! they are doubly to be pitied, for they suffer and do not have recourse to him who alone can console them! As for us, God granted us the grace to recognize his agency. He sustained us, and we humbly submitted to his divine decrees. Misfortune only rendered us the more pious. I had had a special taste for painting from my childhood, but still lacked proficiency, notwithstanding the lessons I had taken. I now set to work with ardor, though I had no master. At the end of a year I had made so much progress that an old teacher of mine, the principal of a boarding-school—an excellent person, who took an interest in our affairs—received me as teacher of drawing in her establishment. She also made me give English lessons to beginners. This additional resource restored ease in a measure to our household. Nevertheless, we were obliged to practise the strictest economy. To enable us to get on swimmingly, as my mother said with a smile, we at last resolved to rent the spacious ready-furnished apartments on the ground floor. The first story was occupied by a lodger, who was, at the same time, a friend of ours. As for us, we lived in the second story. Things went on thus for some years. I was nearly twenty, when one day a young man, whom neither my mother nor myself knew, called to say he had heard our furnished rooms were vacant, and that he would like to occupy them. My mother was greatly pleased with his frank, open manner. She is very social, you know, and made the stranger sit down. They entered into conversation, and I sat listening to them. “Am I mistaken, monsieur?” said my mother, after a while; “it seems as if I have already met you somewhere.” “Yes, madame,” replied the young man, “I have had the honor of seeing you more than once.” “But where?” “At M. Comte, the apothecary’s. I was the head clerk there.” “That is it!... I remember now.... And you have left him?” “Under the most singular circumstances. It seems I am a writer without being aware of it.” “How so?” “You know the Philopolis _Catholic Journal_?”