‘Ha, ha, what charming simplicity!’ cried Maurice, laughing heartily. ‘Still the same honest, excellent, innocent Waldau.--I a courtier, I a favourite! this is indeed an everlasting joke. Know, then, my poor credulous friend, that I am a member of a strolling company who are engaged to play in the hotel of the Count of Felsenbourg. I played yesterday the part of the _Confidante_, in the new piece; and the little man in black, of whom you speak, is the head tailor, who had just been fitting me with a coat of scarlet serge, covered with tinsel and spangles, and to which habit I am indebted for the respect with which you have overwhelmed me.’ ‘God bless me!’ cried Waldau, ‘and are you then a player?’ ‘A player, it is true, but of the prince’s company; and, I swear to you, vanity apart, not one of the worst.’ ‘Then am I ruined--totally undone,’ ejaculated the town-clerk; ‘the councillor will certainly kill me.’ Maurice ceased to laugh when he saw the terror of Waldau. He soon saw his brother’s letter, which lay upon the table, and, opening it, found not only that Pierre was still the same, but that his last hope--the share of his father’s fortune--was for ever gone. He was burdened with debts, the payment of which could no longer be postponed. ‘Ah! my Louisa--ah, my promised happiness--farewell,’ cried he, mournfully. This Louisa, of whom Maurice spoke, was the preserving angel of an infirm mother and two sisters, for whom she procured, by her own exertions, the necessaries of life. The obscure chamber which they occupied was near that of the player; and they frequently saw each other, and the innocence of the young girl, her simple candour, and the boyish good temper of Maurice, soon gave rise to a tender and reciprocal feeling. Poverty has at least this good effect, that it breaks down some of those obstacles which beset the more exalted ranks. Wiesel soon became the assiduous and indispensable friend of the family. Louisa, daily more attracted by his amiable character, and charmed by the frankness with which he expressed his affection, did not seek to conceal that she loved him. The deplorable condition of their fortunes alone stood in the way of their union they swore eternal constancy, and resolved to wait for better times; but the letter of Pierre seemed to make that time more distant than ever. Maurice is obliged to quit the sick man to go to the theatre, and an old woman comes to take his place. The weather is excessively severe, and Waldau requests him to put on the old cloak which his brother has sent, and in which, he adds, ‘Your father breathed his last.’ Maurice seizes it, and, kissing it respectfully, goes out.