at the Sunday dinner Amedee
now brings, instead of a cake, a pastry pie, which sometimes constitutes
the entire meal. There is only one bottle of old wine in the cellar, and
they drink wine by the pot from the grocer's. Each new detail that proves
his friends' distress troubles the sensitive Amedee. Once, having earned
ten Louis from some literary work, he took the poor mother aside and
forced her to accept one hundred francs. The unfortunate woman, trembling
with emotion, while two large tears rolled down her cheeks, admitted that
the night before, in order to pay the washerwoman, they had pawned the
only clock in the house.

What can he do to assist them, to help them to lead a less terrible life?
Ah! if Maria would have it so, they could be married at once, without any
other expense than the white dress, as other poor people do; and they
would all live together. He has his salary of twenty-four hundred francs,
besides a thousand francs that he has earned in other ways. With Louise's
lessons this little income would be almost sufficient. Then he would
exert himself to sell his writings; he would work hard, and they could
manage. Of course it would be quite an undertaking on his part to take
all this family under his charge. Children might be born to them. Had he
not begun to gain a reputation; had he not a future before him? His piece
might be played and meet with success. This would be their salvation. Oh!
the happy life that the four would lead together! Yes, if Maria could
love him a little, if he persisted in hoping, if she had the courage, it
was the only step to take.

Becoming enthusiastic upon this subject, Amedee decided to submit the
question to the excellent Louise, in whom he had perfect confidence, and
considered to be goodness and truth personified. Every Thursday, at six
o'clock, she left a boarding-school in the Rue de la Rochechouart, where
she gave lessons to young ladies in singing. He would go and wait for her
as she came out that very evening. And there he met her. Poor Louise! her
dress was lamentable; and what a sad countenance! What a tired,
distressed look!

"What, you, Amedee!" said she, with a happy smile, as he met her.

"Yes, my dear Louise. Take my arm and let me accompany you part of the
way. We will talk as we walk; I have something very serious to say to
you, confidentially--important advice to ask of you."

The poet then began to make his confession. He recalled their childhood