ded 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
days in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, when they played together; it
was as long ago as that that he had first begun to be charmed by little
Maria. As soon as he became a young man he felt that he loved the dear
child, and had always cherished the hope that he might inspire her with
a tender sentiment and marry her some day. If he had not spoken sooner
it was because he was too poor, but he had always loved her, he loved
her now, and never should love any other woman. He then explained
his plan of life in simple and touching terms; he would become Madame
Gerard's son and his dear Louise's brother; the union of their two
poverties would become almost comfort. Was it not very simple and
reasonable? He was very sure that she would approve of it, and she was
wisdom itself and the head of the family.

While he was talking Louise lowered her eyes and looked at her feet. He
did not feel that she was trembling violently. Blind, blind Amedee!
You do not see, you will never see, that she is the one who loves you!
Without hope! she knows that very well; she is older than you, she is
not pretty, and she will always be in your eyes an adopted elder
sister, who once showed you your alphabet letters with the point of her
knitting-needle. She has suspected for a long time your love for Maria;
she suffers, but she is resigned to it, and she will help you, the brave
girl! But this confession that you make, Maria's name that you murmur
into her ear in such loving accents, this dream of happiness in which,
in your artless egotism, you reserve for her the role of an old maid who
will bring up your children, is cruel, oh! how cruel! They have reached
t