"Well, why should I not admit it?" rejoined the young mechanic, in a profoundly sorrowful tone; "it may be that I shall soon repent of having confided to a child whom I hardly know a secret which I have never allowed those who should be my best friends to suspect. There must be some fateful reason for this longing to unbosom myself which has suddenly drawn me toward you. Perhaps it is the late hour, the fatigue, the excitement caused by the music and lights and perfumes; I do not know. Perhaps, rather, it is because I feel that you are the only person here who is capable of understanding me, and that you are mad enough yourself not to be too severe upon my madness. Well, yes, I love her! I fear her, I hate her, and I adore her all at once--that woman who is unlike all other women, whom no one knows, and whom I do not know myself." "I certainly shall not laugh at you, Magnani; I pity you, I understand you and I love you, because I think that I can detect a certain similarity between you and me. I, too, am excited by the perfumes, the intense brilliancy of that ball, and the noisy dance-music, in which my imagination detects such an undertone of gloom and melancholy through its false liveliness. I, too, feel over-excited and a little mad at this moment. I fancy that there is some deep mystery in our sympathetic feeling for each other." "Because we both love her!" cried Magnani, beside himself. "Why, Michel, I guessed it from the first glance you bestowed upon her; you, too, love her! But you are loved by her, or will be, and she will never love me!" "Loved, I shall be loved, or am already! What are you saying, Magnani? you are raving!" "Listen to me; I must tell you how this disease took possession of me, and perhaps you will understand what is taking place in yourself. Five years ago my mother was ill. The doctor who attended her, for charity's sake, had almost given her up; her case seemed hopeless. I was sitting with my face in my hands, weeping bitterly, at the gate of our little garden, which opens on a street which is almost always deserted, and which ends in the fields on the outskirts of the town. A woman wrapped in a cloak passed the gate and stopped: 'Young man,' she said, 'why do you grieve so? what can I do to lighten your sorrow?'--It was almost dark and her face was hidden; I could not see her features, and her voice, which was extremely sweet, was unfamiliar to me. But her pronunciation and her manner convinced me that she did not belong to our class. "'Signora,' I replied, rising, 'my poor mother is dying. I ought to be with her, but, as she is fully conscious and I have reached the end of my courage, I came outside to weep, so that she should not hear me. I am going back to her, for it is cowardly to weep like this.' "'Yes,' she said, 'we must have enough courage to lend some to those who are struggling in the death agony. Go back to your mother; but tell me first if all hope is lost? has she no doctor?'