the echo of my sentiments? When she had finished I began again;
thus we responded to each other. Music is the language of the soul.
What an ineffable delight to my heart, Clementine thought me worthy of
this converse!

Alas! I must pass over in silence a thousand nameless trifles which
receive their inestimable value only from the sense by which they are
given and received; but they cannot be forgotten. The corse of the
dream of my happy youth, I mean recollection, is also still delightful,
though its life has passed away.

My dream lasted thus for two years. During that time we saw each other
in silence, but still loving, and we conversed only by means of the
chords of the harp, without ever approaching nearer. I knew the church
where she prayed; I also went and prayed too. I knew the days when
she, in the company of her mother and friends, promenaded amid the
shady trees of the Peyrou;[1] there I went also. Her look showed that
she recognised me, and timidly rewarded me.

Without having spoken to each other during this long space of time, we
had by degrees become the most intimate confidants; we reciprocated our
joys and sorrows; we entreated and granted, hoped and feared, and made
vows that were never broken.

No one suspected the intercourse of our souls, our sweet and innocent
familiarity. Only M. Bertollon's kindness threatened more than once to
rob me of my joys, as he insisted on my occupying a better room, and it
was with difficulty I retained possession of my garret.

When Madame Bertollon had returned from her country house her husband
introduced me to her. "Here," said he, "is Alamontade, a young man
whom I love as a friend, and to whom I wish nothing better than that he
may become yours also."

What I had heard of her was not exaggerated. She seemed scarcely
twenty years old, was very beautiful, and might have served an artist
as an idea for a Madonna. A pleasing timidity rendered her the more
attractive, especially as most of her sex and rank in Montpellier knew
less of that reserve, without which grace itself loses all its charms.

She spoke little, but well; she appeared cold, but the vivacity and
brightness of her eye betrayed a sensitive heart and active mind. She
was the benefactress of the poor, and honoured by the whole city.
Neglected by her husband, and adored by young and attractive men of the
first families, she allowed not calumny itself to throw a shade over
the purity of