rregular, his
health far from strong; but the vulgar temptations of the gay capital
seemed to have little attraction for his noble nature. His heart
remained unspoiled. He was most generous to those who could not
afford to pay for his lessons, most pitiful to the poor, most
dutiful and affectionate to his mother. Coming home late from some
grand entertainment, he would sit outside on the staircase till
morning, sooner than awaken, or perhaps alarm, her by letting himself
in. But in losing his father he seemed to have lost a certain method
and order. His meals were irregular, so were his lessons; more so were
the hours devoted to sleep.

At this time he was hardly twenty; we are not surprised anon to hear
in his own words, of "a female form chaste, and pure as the alabaster
of holy vessel," but he adds: "Such was the sacrifice which I offered
with tears to the God of Christians!"

I will explain. Mlle. Caroline St. Cricq was just seventeen, lithe,
slender, and of "angelic" beauty, with a complexion like a lily
flushed with roses, open, "impressionable to beauty, to the world, to
religion, to God." The countess, her mother, appears to have been a
charming woman, very partial to Liszt, whom she engaged to instruct
Mademoiselle in music. The lessons went not by time, but by
inclination. The young man's eloquence, varied knowledge, ardent love
of literature, and flashing genius won both the mother and daughter.
Not one of them seemed to suspect the whirlpool of grief and death to
which they were hurrying. The countess fell ill and died, but not
before she had recommended Liszt to the Count St. Cricq as a possible
suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle.

The haughty diplomat, St. Cricq, at once put his foot down. The
funeral over, Liszt's movements were watched. They were innocent
enough. He was already an _enfant de la maison_, but one night he
lingered reading aloud some favorite author to Mademoiselle a little
too late. He was reported by the servants, and received his polite
dismissal as music master. In an interview with the count his own
pride was deeply wounded. "Difference of rank!" said the count. That
was quite enough for Liszt. He rose, pale as death, with quivering
lip, but uttered not a word. As a man of honor he had but one course.
He and Caroline parted forever. She contracted later an uncongenial
marriage; he seems to have turned with intense ardor to religion. His
good mother used to complain to those who ca