man!" cried she. "And with no one in the world to care about
him!"

She went downstairs to fetch her work, and sat stitching in the garret,
watching over the Livonian gentleman.

When he awoke his astonishment may be imagined on finding a woman
sitting by his bed; it was like the prolongation of a dream. As she sat
there, covering aiguillettes with gold thread, the old maid had resolved
to take charge of the poor youth whom she admired as he lay sleeping.

As soon as the young Count was fully awake, Lisbeth talked to give him
courage, and questioned him to find out how he might make a living.
Wenceslas, after telling his story, added that he owed his position
to his acknowledged talent for the fine arts. He had always had a
preference for sculpture; the necessary time for study had, however,
seemed to him too long for a man without money; and at this moment he
was far too weak to do any hard manual labor or undertake an important
work in sculpture. All this was Greek to Lisbeth Fischer. She replied
to the unhappy man that Paris offered so many openings that any man with
will and courage might find a living there. A man of spirit need never
perish if he had a certain stock of endurance.

"I am but a poor girl myself, a peasant, and I have managed to make
myself independent," said she in conclusion. "If you will work in
earnest, I have saved a little money, and I will lend you, month by
month, enough to live upon; but to live frugally, and not to play ducks
and drakes with or squander in the streets. You can dine in Paris for
twenty-five sous a day, and I will get you your breakfast with mine
every day. I will furnish your rooms and pay for such teaching as you
may think necessary. You shall give me formal acknowledgment for the
money I may lay out for you, and when you are rich you shall repay me
all. But if you do not work, I shall not regard myself as in any way
pledged to you, and I shall leave you to your fate."

"Ah!" cried the poor fellow, still smarting from the bitterness of his
first struggle with death, "exiles from every land may well stretch out
their hands to France, as the souls in Purgatory do to Paradise. In what
other country is such help to be found, and generous hearts even in such
a garret as this? You will be everything to me, my beloved benefactress;
I am your slave! Be my sweetheart," he added, with one of the caressing
gestures familiar to the Poles, for which they are unjustly accused of
ser