nothingness in man, that
he believes he still survives in the sentiments which he has inspired,
and he in some measure consoles himself for leaving the world by
thinking of the regrets which will accompany his memory, and of the pity
which will visit his tomb. Thus, at this instant, the chevalier would
have given everything to be loved, if it was only by a dog.

He was plunged in the saddest of these reflections when, passing and
repassing before his window, he noticed that his neighbor's was open. He
stopped suddenly, and shook his head, as if to cast off the most somber
of these thoughts; leaning his elbow on the table, and his head on his
hand, he tried to give a different direction to his thoughts by looking
at exterior objects.

The young girl whom he had seen in the morning was seated near her
window, in order to benefit by the last rays of daylight; she was
working at some kind of embroidery. Behind her the harpsichord was open,
and, on a stool at her feet, her greyhound slept the light sleep of an
animal destined by nature to be the guard of man, waking at every noise
which arose from the street, raising its ears, and stretching out its
elegant head over the window-sill; then it lay down again, placing one
of its little paws upon its mistress's knees. All this was deliciously
lighted up by the rays of the sinking sun, which penetrated into the
room, sparkling on the steel ornaments of the harpsichord and the gold
beading of the picture-frames. The rest was in twilight.

Then it seemed to the chevalier (doubtless on account of the disposition
of mind he was in when this picture had struck his eye) that this young
girl, with the calm and sweet face, entered into his life, like one of
those personages who always remain behind a veil, and make their
entrance on a piece in the second or third act to take part in the
action, and, sometimes, to change the denouement.

Since the age when one sees angels in one's dreams, he had seen no one
like her. She was a mixture of beauty, candor, and simplicity, such as
Greuze has copied, not from nature, but from the reflections in the
mirror of his imagination. Then, forgetting everything, the humble
condition in which without doubt she had been born, the street where he
had found her, the modest room which she had inhabited, seeing nothing
in the woman except the woman herself, he attributed to her a heart
corresponding with her face, and thought what would be the happiness o