“What, you, Amedee!” said she, with a happy smile, as he met her.

“Yes, my dear Louise.  Take my arm and let me accompany you part of the way.  We will talk as we walk; I have something very serious to say to you, confidentially—­important advice to ask of you.”

The poet then began to make his confession.  He recalled their childhood days in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, when they played together; it was as long ago as that that he had first begun to be charmed by little Maria.  As soon as he became a young man he felt that he loved the dear child, and had always cherished the hope that he might inspire her with a tender sentiment and marry her some day.  If he had not spoken sooner it was because he was too poor, but he had always loved her, he loved her now, and never should love any other woman.  He then explained his plan of life in simple and touching terms; he would become Madame Gerard’s son and his dear Louise’s brother; the union of their two poverties would become almost comfort.  Was it not very simple and reasonable?  He was very sure that she would approve of it, and she was wisdom itself and the head of the family.

While he was talking Louise lowered her eyes and looked at her feet.  He did not feel that she was trembling violently.  Blind, blind Amedee!  You do not see, you will never see, that she is the one who loves you!  Without hope! she knows that very well; she is older than you, she is not pretty, and she will always be in your eyes an adopted elder sister, who once showed you your alphabet letters with the point of her knitting-needle.  She has suspected for a long time your love for Maria; she suffers, but she is resigned to it, and she will help you, the brave girl!  But this confession that you make, Maria’s name that you murmur into her ear in such loving accents, this dream of happiness in which, in your artless egotism, you reserve for her the role of an old maid who will bring up your children, is cruel, oh! how cruel!  They have reached the Boulevard Pigalle; the sun has set; the sky is clear and bright as a turquoise, and the sharp autumn wind detaches the last of the dried leaves from the trees.  Amedee is silent, but his anxious glance solicits and waits for Louise’s reply.

“Dear Amedee,” said she, raising her frank, pure eyes to his face, “you have the most generous and best of hearts.  I suspected that you loved Maria, and I would be glad to tell you at once that she loves you, so that we might hereafter be but one family—­but frankly I can not.  Although the dear child is a little frivolous, her woman’s instinct must suspect your feeling for her, but she has never spoken of it to mamma or to me.  Have confidence; I do not see anything that augurs ill for you in that.  She is so young and so innocent that she might love you without suspecting it herself.  It is very possible, probable even, that your avowal will enlighten her as to the state of her own heart.