French lesson. My teacher had a pretty
daughter, named Barbara, who was always present during my lessons, and
who sometimes taught me herself with even more exactitude than her
father. A good-looking young man, who likewise took lessons, was courting
her, and I soon perceived that she loved him. This young man called often
upon me, and I liked him, especially on account of his reserve, for,
although I made him confess his love for Barbara, he always changed the
subject, if I mentioned it in our conversation.

I had made up my mind to respect his reserve, and had not alluded to his
affection for several days. But all at once I remarked that he had ceased
his visits both to me and to his teacher, and at the same time I observed
that the young girl was no longer present at my lessons; I felt some
curiosity to know what had happened, although it was not, after all, any
concern of mine.

A few days after, as I was returning from church, I met the young man,
and reproached him for keeping away from us all. He told me that great
sorrow had befallen him, which had fairly turned his brain, and that he
was a prey to the most intense despair. His eyes were wet with tears. As
I was leaving him, he held me back, and I told him that I would no longer
be his friend unless he opened his heart to me. He took me to one of the
cloisters, and he spoke thus:

"I have loved Barbara for the last six months, and for three months she
has given me indisputable proofs of her affection. Five days ago, we were
betrayed by the servant, and the father caught us in a rather delicate
position. He left the room without saying one word, and I followed him,
thinking of throwing myself at his feet; but, as I appeared before him,
he took hold of me by the arm, pushed me roughly to the door, and forbade
me ever to present myself again at his house. I cannot claim her hand in
marriage, because one of my brothers is married, and my father is not
rich; I have no profession, and my mistress has nothing. Alas, now that I
have confessed all to you, tell me, I entreat you, how she is. I am
certain that she is as miserable as I am myself. I cannot manage to get a
letter delivered to her, for she does not leave the house, even to attend
church. Unhappy wretch! What shall I do?"

I could but pity him, for, as a man of honour, it was impossible for me
to interfere in such a business. I told him that I had not seen Barbara
for five days, and, not knowing what to say