Little gregarious by nature, Paris had already ceased to delight me in the same way that it had delighted me at first.  A “retired leisure,” and the society of the woman whom I loved, grew to be the day-dream of my solitary life.  And still, ever more and more plainly, it became evident to me that for the career of the student I was designed by nature.  Bayle, Magliabecchi of Florence, Isaac Reed, Sir Thomas Brown, Montaigne—­those were the men whose lot in life I envied—­those the literary anchorites in whose steps I would fain have followed.

But this was not to be; so I worked on, rose early, studied late, gained experience, took out my second inscription with credit, and had the satisfaction of knowing that I was fast acquiring the good opinion of Dr. Cheron.  Thus Christmas passed by, and January with its bitter winds; and February set in, bright but frosty.  And still, without encouragement or nope, I went on loving Hortense Dufresnoy.

My opportunities of seeing her were few and brief.  A passing bow in the hall, or a distant “good-evening” as we passed upon the stairs, for some time made up the sum of our intercourse.  Gradually, however, a kind of formal acquaintance sprang up between us; an acquaintance fostered by trifles and dependent on the idlest, or what seemed the idlest, casualties.  I say “seemed,” for often that which to her appeared the work of chance was the result of elaborate contrivance on my part.  She little knew, when I met her on the staircase, how I had been listening for the last hour to catch the echo of her step.  She little dreamed when I encountered her at the corner of the street, how I had been concealed, till that moment, in the cafe over the way, ready to dart out as soon as she appeared in sight.  I would then affect either a polite unconcern, or an air of judicious surprise, or pretend not to lift my eyes at all till she was nearly past; and I think I must have been a very fair actor, for it all succeeded capitally, and I am not aware that she ever had the least suspicion of the truth.  Let me, however, recall one incident over which I had no control, and which did more towards promoting our intercourse than all the rest.

It is a cold, bright morning in February.  There is a brisk exhilaration in the air.  The windows and gilded balconies sparkle in the sun, and it is pleasant to hear the frosty ring of one’s boots upon the pavement.  It is a fete to-day.  Nothing is doing in the lecture-rooms, and I have the whole day before me.  Meaning, therefore, to enjoy it over the fire and a book, I wisely begin it by a walk.