step as
if it had been a marble stairway, with richly wrought balustrade. At the
end of the ascent I hurriedly opened a door, and, perfectly at home,
entered a small room. I paused motionless upon the threshold, and
glanced feelingly around. The room contained nothing but a table covered
with books and dust, a stiff oak arm-chair, a hard and
uninviting-looking lounge, and on the mantel-piece, in two earthen
vases, designed by Ziegler, the only ornaments of this poor retreat, a
few dry, withered asters. No one expected me, I expected no one. There I
remained until evening, waiting for nightfall, thinking the sun would
never set and the day never end. Finally, as the night deepened, I
leaned on the sill of the only window, and with an emotion I cannot
describe, watched the stars peep forth one by one. I would have given
them all for a sight of the one star which will never shine again. Shall
I tell you about it, madame, and would you comprehend me? You know
nothing of my life; you do not know that, during two years, I lived in
that garret, poor, unknown, with no other friend than labor, no other
companion than the little light which appeared and disappeared regularly
every evening through the branches of a Canada pine. I did not know
then, neither do I know now, who watched by that pale gleam, but I felt
for it a nameless affection, a mysterious tenderness. On leaving my
retreat, I sent it, through the trees, a long farewell, and the not
seeing it on my return distressed me as the loss of a brother. What has
become of you, little shining beacon, who illumined the gloom of my
studious nights? Did a storm extinguish you? or has God, whom I invoked
for you, granted my prayer, and do you shine with a less troubled ray in
happier climes? It is a long story; and I know a fresher and a more
charming one, which I will speedily tell you.

I took the train the next day (that was yesterday) for Richeport, where
M. de Meilhan had invited me to meet him. You know M. de Meilhan without
ever having seen him. You are familiar with his verses and you like
them. I profess to love the man as much as his talents. Our friendship
is of long standing; I assisted at the first lispings of his muse; I saw
his young glory grow and expand; I predicted from the first the place
that he now holds in the poetic pleiad, the honor of a great nation. To
hear him you would say that he was a pitiless scoffer; to study him you
would soon find, under this surf