“You see, Andre,” said she, extending her hand, “you see that I am true to my time.”

Pale, and trembling with emotion, Andre pressed the little hand to his lips.

“Ah!  Mademoiselle Sabine, how kind you are!  Thanks, a thousand thanks.”

Yes, it was indeed Sabine, the scion of the lordly house of Mussidan, who had come to visit the poor foundling of the Hotel de Vendome in his studio, and who thus risked all that was most precious to her in the world, her honor and her reputation.  Yes, regardless of the conventionalities among which she had been reared, dared to cross that social abyss which separates the Avenue de Matignon from the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne.  Cold reason finds no excuse for such a step, but the heart can easily solve this seeming riddle.  Sabine and Andre had been lovers for more than two years.  Their first acquaintance had commenced at the Chateau de Mussidan.  At the end of the summer of 1865, Andre, whose constant application to work had told upon his health, determined to take a change, when his master, Jean Lanier, called him, and said,—­

“If you wish for a change, and at the same time to earn three or four hundred francs, now is your time.  An architect has written to me, asking me for a skilled stone carver, to do some work in the country at a magnificent mansion in the midst of the most superb scenery.  Would you care about undertaking this?”

The proposal was a most acceptable one to Andre, and in a week’s time he was on his way to his work with a prospect of living for a month in pure country air.  Upon his arrival at the Chateau, he made a thorough examination of the work with which he had been entrusted.  He saw that he could finish it with perfect ease, for it was only to restore the carved work on a balcony, which would not take more than a fortnight.  He did not, however, press on the work, for the beautiful scenery enchanted him.

He made many exquisite sketches, and his health began to return to him.  But there was another reason why he was in no haste to complete his task, one which he hardly ventured even to confess to himself:  he had caught a glimpse of a young girl in the park of the Chateau who had caused a new feeling to spring up in his heart.  It was Sabine de Mussidan.  The Count, as the season came on, had gone to Germany, the Countess had flitted away to Luzon, and the daughter was sent to the dull old country mansion in charge of her old aunt.  It was the old, old story; two young hearts loving with all the truth and energy of their natures.  They had exchanged a few words on their first meeting, and on the next Sabine went on to the balcony and watched the rapid play of Andre’s chisel with childish delight.  For a long time they conversed, and Sabine was surprised at the education and refinement of the young workman.  Utterly fresh, and without experience, Sabine could not understand her new sensations.  Andre held, one night, a long converse with himself, and was at last obliged to confess that he loved her fondly.  He ran the extent of his folly and madness, and recognized the barrier of birth and wealth that stood between them, and was overwhelmed with consternation.