on the breast which incloses my loving heart? Did
she not then appear as if she wished to crown that heart with her own
hand? Could it only have been childish play? Ah! could it have been
indifferent to her whether it was a crown of thorns or a wreath of
blossoms which she was winding round my heart?

She was at the window. I raised the wreath and pressed it to my lips.
She seemed to perceive it; she suppressed a smile, bent forward and
looked into the street, but not again at me. This response plunged me
into inexpressible trouble. It seemed as if she was ashamed of the
gift she once had bestowed on me. I now suddenly became conscious of
what I expected and hoped from her. I wished an impossibility. I had
never thought of Clementine as my wife; I loved her and wished to be
loved by her. But she my wife? I, the poor son of a farmer who died
encumbered with debt. I who still had to battle with want, and only
saw an uncertain fate in the future--I expect the richest heiress in
Montpellier!

At this thought my proud spirit sank. I loved Clementine and forgave
her if she could not return my love. I saw clearly that I could not
change the relations of social life; and, in fact, was too proud to
make my fortune by marriage.

Henceforth I applied more ardently to my studies, wishing to pave my
way to Clementine's elevation by my own energies. Many nights I passed
sleepless in study. Desirous of hearing the unbiassed judgment of
critics respecting my talents, I published, anonymously, a work on the
jurisprudence of the ancients, and a collection of poems, the greater
part of which were inspired by my secret passion.

This publication of my labours had an unexpected success. Curiosity
soon discovered the name of the author, who was everywhere courted.
The loud applause raised my self-esteem, and the success of my first
attempt rekindled the extinguished flame of hope by the light of which
I saw Clementine as my own, though at a distance which rendered her
indistinct.

She herself rewarded me in the most pleasing manner, by once reading my
poems at the window, when their author had become known. Indeed, from
a hundred allusions in the poems which she only understood, she might
have guessed their author. She looked across to me, smiled, and
pressed the book to her bosom, as if she wished to tell me, "I love it,
and what you express in it you have addressed to this heart, which
feels and is grateful."

I