of fresh flowers
entwining her dark hair.

She smiled on me with an expression of innocent love; took the wreath
from her hair, waved it with her delicate hand, and it dropped on my
breast.

"Oh! heavenly dream never depart from me," I said, while gazing with
inexpressible rapture on the beautiful vision.

While I was in this state a carriage rolled past. Clementine's
countenance darkened on hearing her name called.

"Farewell, Alamontade," said she, and disappeared amidst the trembling
boughs.

At that moment I was going to fall at her feet but found myself on the
ground. I was no longer in a dream, for I perceived the Vidourle and
the chateau in the shade of the lofty chesnut trees.

I rose and heard a carriage rattling over the bridge, and as I hastened
along, an old servant approached, and asked whether I wished any
refreshment. On my evincing astonishment, he asked, "Are you not M.
Alamontade?" I answered in the affirmative. Then he said,
"Mademoiselle de Sonnes and her mother have left me orders to that
effect!" I went back, took up the wreath and followed the servant.
Clementine was Mademoiselle de Sonnes.

That day was the happiest and most memorable of my life.

A garret in the back part of the house of M. Bertollon, one of the
richest and most fortunate citizens of Montpellier was my dwelling.
Some roofs, black walls, and two windows, with the balconies of a house
in the opposite street were my only prospect; still I was happy.
Surrounded by books, I lived only to study, and Clementine's wreath
hung over my table. The millions of spring blossoms lost their
splendour before the magic of these withered flowers, and the jewels of
kings were valueless to me in comparison with the smallest leaf of the
clover.

Clementine was my saint, and I loved her with a pious veneration, such
as we feel for angelic beings. Her wreath was a relic, which an angel
had let fall on me from heaven. In my dreams I saw her surrounded by
glory, and she was the subject of my poetic effusions. I looked most
anxiously for the vacations of the college to see my uncle and Nismes,
and perhaps, by some happy chance, my adored saint.

One day the door of my solitary room opened, and a handsome young man
entered. It was M. Bertollon. "You have a gloomy prospect," he said,
as he stepped to the window, "still it extends to part of the house of
M. de Sonnes, one of the most tasteful in the town," he added, smiling.

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