He stroked his beard, where lurked a few gray hairs.

“I am thinking, my friend, that youth leaves us in this same way, at the time when we love it most, with a faint smile, and without a word to tell us whither.  Mine played me this trick.”

“What a good idea of yours to sketch them both.  Let me see the sketch.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“It can scarcely be called a sketch; it’s a mere scratch.”

“Show it, all the same.”

“My good Fabien, you ought to know that when I am obstinate I have my reasons, like Balaam’s ass.  You will not see my sketch-book to-day, nor to-morrow, nor the day after.”

I answered with foolish warmth: 

“Please yourself; I don’t care.”

Really I was very much annoyed, and I was rather cool with Lampron when we parted on the platform.

What has come to the fellow?  To refuse to show me a sketch he had made before my eyes, and a sketch of Jeanne, too!

April 28th, 9 A.M.

Hide your sketches, Sylvestre; stuff them away in your portfolios, or your pockets; I care little, for I bear Jeanne’s image in my heart, and can see it when I will, and I love her, I love her, I love her!

What is to become of her and of me I can not tell.  I hope without knowing what or why, or when, and hope alone is comforting.

9 P.M.

This afternoon, at two o’clock, I met Lampron in the Boulevard St. Michel.  He was walking fast with a portfolio under his arm.  I went up to him.  He looked annoyed, and hardly seemed pleased when I offered to accompany him.  I grew red and angry.

“Oh, very well,” I said; “good-by, then, since you don’t care to be seen with me.”

He pondered a moment.

“Oh, come along if you like; I am going to my framemaker’s.”

“A picture?”

“Something of the kind.”

“And that’s all the mystery!  Yesterday it was a sketch I mustn’t look at; to-day it’s a picture.  It is not nice of you, Sylvestre; no, decidedly it is not nice.”

He gave me a look of friendly compassion.

“Poor little chap!” said he.

Then, in his usual clear, strong voice: 

“I am in a great hurry; but come if you like.  I would rather it were four days later; but as it is, never mind; it is never too soon to be happy.”

When Lampron chooses to hold his tongue it is useless to ask him questions.  I gave myself up to meditating on the words, “It is never too soon to be happy.”

We went down the boulevard, past the beer-houses.  There is distinction in my friend’s walk; he is not to be confused with the crowd through which he passes.  You can tell, from the simple seriousness of the man, his indifference to the noise and petty incidents of the streets, that he is a stout and noble soul.  Among the passers-by he is a somebody.  I heard from a group of students seated before a cafe the following words, which Sylvestre did not seem to notice: