us; and then we were silent, surprised
to find ourselves vis-a-vis.

I looked about me in embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor;
everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musical
instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, but
everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.

As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. On
the mantel I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look at
it, and he said it was his mother.

I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had known him
since childhood. Before I came to the country she used to see him
occasionally at N------, but at the time of her last visit there he was
away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned some
particulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honest
employment that enabled him to support his mother and sister.

His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; he deprived
himself of everything for them, and although he possessed musical talents
that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the immediate needs of
those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, had always led him to
prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances of success in larger
ventures.

In a word, he belonged to that small class who live quietly, and who are
worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I had
learned of certain traits in his character which will serve to paint the
man he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighborhood, and,
after a year of devotion to her, had secured her parents' consent to
their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to be signed,
the preparations for the wedding were complete, when his mother said:

"And your sister? Who will marry her?"

That simple remark made him understand that if he married he would spend
all his money in the household expenses and his sister would have no
dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy
prospects; he then came to Paris.

When I heard that story I wished to see the hero. That simple, unassuming
act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the glories of war.

The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach
the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me,
that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually my
though