, when
my sister married and we came to live here, where we only see honest
folks who talk about the stable, the harvest, and the weather. You are
the first person I have seen who has talked to me about literature. If
our old Sardini had come with us I should have gone on learning, but my
sister did not care to have him here."

"But my dear Clementine," said the countess, "what do you think my
husband could have done with an old man of eighty whose sole
accomplishments are weighing the wind, writing verses, and talking
mythology?"

"He would have been useful enough," said the husband, "if he could have
managed the estate, but the honest old man will not believe in the
existence of rascals. He is so learned that he is quite stupid."

"Good heavens!" cried Clementine. "Sardini stupid? It is certainly easy
to deceive him, but that is because he is so noble. I love a man who is
easily deceived, but they call me silly."

"Not at all, my dear sister," said the countess. "On the contrary, there
is wisdom in all you say, but it is wisdom out of place in a woman; the
mistress of a household does not want to know anything about literature,
poetry, or philosophy, and when it comes to marrying you I am very much
afraid that your taste for this kind of thing will stand in your way."

"I know it, and I am expecting to die a maid; not that it is much
compliment to the men."

To know all that such a dialogue meant for me, the reader must imagine
himself most passionately in love. I thought myself unfortunate. I could
have given her a hundred thousand crowns, and I would have married her
that moment. She told me that Sardini was at Milan, very old and ill.

"Have you been to see him?" I asked.

"I have never been to Milan."

"Is it possible? It is not far from here."

"Distance is relative, you know."

This was beautifully expressed. It told me without any false shame that
she could not afford to go, and I was pleased by her frankness. But in
the state of mind I was in I should have been pleased with anything she
chose to do. There are moments in a man's life when the woman he loves
can make anything of him.

I spoke to her in a manner that affected her so that she took me into a
closet next to her room to shew me her books. There were only thirty in
all, but they were chosen, although somewhat elementary. A woman like
Clementine needed something more.

"Do you know, my dear Hebe, that you want more books?"

"I have of