“I remember, my dear boy,” remarked the old soldier in a tone of friendly raillery; “for you came to see me that night, and I had not seen you for months before.”

Marius proceeded without heeding the remark.

“And yet you know that I am not the man to yield to first impression.  I struggled:  with determined energy I strove to drive off that radiant image which I carried within my soul, which left me no more, which haunted me in the midst of my studies.

“Vain efforts.  My thoughts obeyed me no longer—­my will escaped my control.  It was indeed one of those passions that fill the whole being, overpower all, and which make of life an ineffable felicity or a nameless torture, according that they are reciprocated, or not.  How many days I spent there, waiting and watching for her of whom I had thus had a glimpse, and who ignored my very existence!  And what insane palpitations, when, after hours of consuming anxiety, I saw at the corner of the street the undulating folds of her dress!  I saw her thus often, and always with the same elderly person, her mother.  They had adopted in this square a particular bench, where they sat daily, working at their sewing with an assiduity and zeal which made me think that they lived upon the product of their labor.”

Here he was suddenly interrupted by his companion.  The old gentleman feared that Mme. Favoral’s attention might at last be attracted by too direct allusions.

“Take care, boy!” he whispered, not so low, however, but what Gilberte overheard him.

But it would have required much more than this to draw Mme. Favoral from her sad thoughts.  She had just finished her band of tapestry; and, grieving to lose a moment: 

“It is perhaps time to go home,” she said to her daughter.  “I have nothing more to do.”

Mlle. Gilberte drew from her basket a piece of canvas, and, handing it to her mother: 

“Here is enough to go on with, mamma,” she said in a troubled voice.  “Let us stay a little while longer.”

And, Mme. Favoral having resumed her work, Marius proceeded: 

“The thought that she whom I loved was poor delighted me.  Was not this similarity of positions a link between us?  I felt a childish joy to think that I would work for her and for her mother, and that they would be indebted to me for their ease and comfort in life.

“But I am not one of those dreamers who confide their destiny to the wings of a chimera.  Before undertaking any thing, I resolved to inform myself.  Alas! at the first words that I heard, all my fine dreams took wings.  I heard that she was rich, very rich.  I was told that her father was one of those men whose rigid probity surrounds itself with austere and harsh forms.  He owed his fortune, I was assured, to his sole labor, but also to prodigies of economy and the most severe privations.  He professed a worship, they said, for that gold that