Roland, born of an honest tradesman’s family, which had held magisterial offices and asserted claims to nobility, was the youngest of five brothers, and intended for the church.  To avoid this destiny, which disgusted him, he fled from his father’s roof at nineteen, and went to Nantes.  Procuring a situation with a ship-builder, he was about to embark for India in trade, when an illness at the moment he was to embark prevented him.  One of his relations, a superintendent of a factory, received him at Rouen, and gave him a situation in his office.  This house, animated by the spirit of Turgot, made experiments in the details of its business with all the sciences, and by political economy with the loftiest problems of governments.  It was peopled by philosophers, amongst whom Roland distinguished himself, and the government sent him to Italy to watch the progress of commerce there.

He left his young friend with reluctance, and forwarded to her regularly scientific letters, intended as notes to the work which he proposed to write on Italy—­letters in which the sentiment that displayed itself beneath science, more resembled the studies of a philosopher than the conversations of a lover.

On his return she saw in him a friend.  His age, gravity, manners, laborious habits, made her consider him as a sage who existed solely on his reason.  In the union they contemplated, and which less resembled love, than the ancient associations of the days of Socrates and Plato—­the one sought a disciple rather than a wife, and the other married a master rather than a husband.  M. Roland returned to Amiens, and thence wrote to the father to demand his daughter’s hand, which was bluntly denied to him.  He feared in Roland, whose austerity displeased him, a censor for himself, and a tyrant for his child.  Informed of her father’s refusal, she grew indignant, and went to a convent destitute of every thing.  There she lived on the coarsest food, prepared by her own hands.  She plunged into deep study, and strengthened her heart against adversity. She revenged herself by deserving the happiness of a lot which was not accorded to her.  In the evening she visited her friends; in the day an hour’s walk in a garden surrounded with high walls.  That feeling of strength which steels against fate—­that melancholy which softens the soul, and feeds it on its own sensibility,—­helped her to pass long winter months in her voluntary captivity.

A feeling of internal bitterness, however, poisoned even this sacrifice.  She said to herself that this sensibility was not recompensed.  She had flattered herself that M. Roland, on learning of her resolution and retreat, would hasten to take her from this convent and unite their destinies.  Time passed on.  Roland came not, and scarcely wrote.  At the end of six months he arrived, and was again deeply enamoured on seeing his beloved behind a grating.  He resolved on offering her his hand, which she accepted.