“Certainly: an excellent paper. It is a great pity it is not so successful as it deserves to be. But between us, it is partly its own fault: it lacks interest and ability. It has only one able contributor—Victor Barnier, but he does not write often enough.” “The poor fellow cannot help it. His duties at the apothecary’s shop have naturally superseded his taste for journalism.” ... “What! are you Victor Barnier?” “Yes, madame.” “Ah! well, young man, you do not lack talent.” “Others have said the same, madame. I hope you are not all mistaken, especially for the sake of the _Catholic Journal_, of which I have been appointed the principal editor. I refused the post at first, the responsibility seemed so great. They insisted. The position surpassed my wishes. Without any one’s knowing it, I had for many years ardently longed to be a writer. But like so many others, the limited circumstances of my family prevented it. Now, thanks to this unexpected offer, the opportunity of following my natural inclinations is so tempting that I cannot resist it. My good mother tells me it is a perilous career, and that I shall meet with more trouble than success. No matter! I am so fond of literary pursuits that, were they to afford me only one day of happiness in my life, I should still cling to them. And then, I say it without boasting, I love above all things the cause I am to defend, and hope through divine assistance to become its able champion. I have, therefore, left M. Comte’s, though not without some regret. I enter upon my duties to-morrow, and—am in want of lodgings.” “Oh! well, that is all settled. You shall come here and be well taken care of.” After this, Victor left us. I have only given you the substance of the conversation in which I more than once took part. I must confess Victor won my esteem and good-will at this first interview. He merited them. He was at once an excellent and a talented man—that was to be seen at the first glance. The better he was known, the more evident it became that his outward appearance, pleasing as it was, was not deceptive. He was then twenty-five years old, but, though young, he had had many trials, I assure you—trials similar to yours, my young friend, but much more severe. CHAPTER III. TRUE LOVE—HAPPY UNION. The following day Victor took up his abode with us. Before a fortnight had elapsed, my mother was enchanted with her new lodger. She sounded his praises from morning till night. This may perhaps astonish you, but you must know that she and I were always in the habit of telling each other our very thoughts. This reciprocal confidence was so perfect that it might be truly said we concealed nothing from each other.