tantly wrote, for our benefit, the
sweetest rhymed verses dedicated to her, wherein her name, ending in
"a," recurred again and again, like the perfume of musk.

In spite of my great affection for him I could not but smile pityingly
over his poetic effusions. And I think that it is partly because of them
that I have never, at any epoch in my life, had the least inclination to
write a single line of verse. My notes were always written in a wild and
free prose that outraged every rule.

CHAPTER LXXVI.

Paul knew by heart many verses of a forbidden poet named Alfred de
Musset. The strange quality of these verses troubled me, and yet I
was fascinated by them. In class he would whisper them, in a scarcely
perceptible voice, into my ear; and although my conscience accused me, I
used to allow him to begin:

Jacque was very quiet as he looked at Marie,
I know not what that sleeping maiden
Had of mystery in her features, the noblest ever seen.

In my brother's study, where from time to time, when I was overwhelmed
with sorrow over his departure, I isolated myself, I had seen on a shelf
in his book-case a large volume of this poet's works, and often I had
been tempted to take it down; but my parents had said to me: "You are
not to touch any of the books that are there without permission from
us," and my conscience always gave me pause.

As to asking for permission, I knew only too well that my request would
be refused.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

I will here recount a dream that I had in my fourteenth year. It came
to me during one of those mild and sweet nights that are ushered in by a
long and delicious twilight.

In the room where I had spent all the years of my childhood I had been
lulled to sleep by the sound of songs that the sailors and young girls
sang as they danced around the flower-twined May-pole. Until the moment
of deep sleep I had listened to those very old national airs which the
children of the people were singing in a loud, free voice, but distance
softened and mellowed and poetized the voices as they traversed the
tranquil silence; strangely enough I had been soothed by the noisy mirth
and overflowing joyousness of these beings who, during their fleeting
youth, are so much more artless than we, and more oblivious of death.

In my dream it was twilight, not a sad one however, but on the contrary,
the air was soft and mild and overflowing with sweet odors like that of
a real