g two letters that he had
received from Milan, at the beginning of his journey, in the first flush
of his enthusiasm, Amedee had had no news from his friend. He excused
this negligence on the part of the lazy Maurice, who had smilingly told
him, on the eve of departure, not to count upon hearing from him
regularly. At each visit that Amedee paid the Gerards, Maria always asked
him:

"Have you received any news from your friend Maurice?"

At first he had paid no attention to this, but her persistency at length
astonished him, planting a little germ of suspicion and alarm in his
heart. Maurice Roger had only paid the Gerards a few visits during the
father's lifetime, and accompanied on each occasion by Amedee. He had
always observed the most respectful manner toward Maria, and they had
perhaps exchanged twenty words. Why should Maria preserve such a
particular remembrance of a person so nearly a stranger to her? Was it
possible that he had made a deep impression, perhaps even inspired a
sentiment of love? Did she conceal in the depths of her heart, when she
thought of him, a tender hope? Was she watching for him? Did she wish him
to return?

When these fears crossed Amedee's mind, he felt a choking sensation, and
his heart was troubled. Happy Maurice, who had only to be seen to please!
But immediately, with a blush of shame, the generous poet chased away
this jealous fancy. But every Sunday, when Maria, lowering her eyes, and
with a slightly embarrassed voice, repeated her question, "Have you
received any news from Monsieur Maurice?" Amedee felt a cruelly
discouraged feeling, and thought, with deep sadness:

"She never will love me!"

To conquer this new grief, he plunged still more deeply into work; but he
did not find his former animation and energy. After the drizzling rain of
the last days of March, the spring arrived. Now, when Amedee awoke, it
was broad daylight at six o'clock in the morning. Opening his mansard
window, he admired, above the tops of the roofs, the large, ruddy sun
rising in the soft gray sky, and from the convent gardens beneath came a
fresh odor of grass and damp earth. Under the shade of the arched lindens
which led to the shrine of a plaster Virgin, a first and almost
imperceptible rustle, a presentiment of verdure, so to speak, ran through
the branches, and the three almond trees in the kitchen-garden put forth
their delicate flowers. The young poet was invaded by a sweet and
overwhelming