She will be touched by your love, I am sure, as well as by your devotion to the whole family.  I hope, with all my heart, Amedee, that you will succeed; for, I can say it to you, some pleasure must happen in poor Maria’s life soon.  She has moments of the deepest sadness and attacks of weeping that have made me uneasy for some time.  You must have noticed, too, that she is overwhelmed with ennui.  I can see that she suffers more than mamma or I, at the hard life that we lead.  It is not strange that she feels as she does, for she is pretty and attractive, and made for happiness; and to see the present and the future so sad!  How hard it is!  You can understand, my friend, how much I desire this marriage to take place.  You are so good and noble, you will make Maria happy; but you have said it, I am the one who represents wisdom in our house.  Let me have then a few days in which to observe Maria, to obtain her confidence, to discover perhaps a sentiment in her heart of which she is ignorant; and remember that you have a sure and faithful ally in me.”

“Take your own time, dear Louise,” replied the poet.  “I leave everything to you.  Whatever you do will be for the best.”

He thanked her and they parted at the foot of the Rue Lepic.  It was a bitter pleasure for the slighted one to give the young man her poor, deformed, pianist’s hand, and to feel that he pressed it with hope and gratitude.

She desired and must urge this marriage.  She said this over and over again to herself, as she walked up the steep street, where crowds of people were swarming at the end of their day’s work.  No! no!  Maria did not care for Amedee.  Louise was very sure of it; but at all events it was necessary that she should try to snatch her young sister from the discouragements and bad counsel of poverty.  Amedee loved her and would know how to make her love him.  In order to assure their happiness these two young people must be united.  As to herself, what matter!  If they had children she would accept in advance her duties as coddling aunt and old godmother.  Provided, of course, that Maria would be guided, or, at least, that she would consent.  She was so pretty that she was a trifle vain.  She was nourishing, perhaps, nobody knew what fancy or vain hope, based upon her beauty and youth.  Louise had grave fears.  The poor girl, with her thin, bent shoulders wrapped up in an old black shawl, had already forgotten her own grief and only thought of the happiness of others, as she slowly dragged herself up Montmartre Hill.  When she reached the butcher’s shop in front of the mayor’s office, she remembered a request of her mother’s; and as is always the case with the poor, a trivial detail is mixed with the drama of life.  Louise, without forgetting her thoughts, while sacrificing her own heart, went into the shop and picked out two breaded cutlets and had them done up in brown paper, for their evening’s repast.