el, had taken possession of her inmost being--the
idea of being loved some day by somebody as she herself loved.

"Was that somebody a boy of her own age?"

Oh, fie!--mere boys--still schoolboys--could only be looked upon as
playfellows or comrades. Of course she considered Fred--Fred, for
example!--Frederic d'Argy--as a brother, but how different he was from
her ideal. Even young men of fashion--she had seen some of them on
Tuesdays--Raoul Wermant, the one who so distinguished himself as a
leader in the 'german', or Yvonne's brother, the officer of chasseurs,
who had gained the prize for horsemanship, and others besides
these--seemed to her very commonplace by comparison. No!--he whom she
loved was a man in the prime of life, well known to fame. She didn't
care if he had a few white hairs.

"Is he a person of rank?" asked Fraulein Schult, much puzzled.

"Oh! if you mean of noble birth, no, not at all. But fame is so superior
to birth! There are more ways than one of acquiring an illustrious name,
and the name that a man makes for himself is the noblest of all!"

Then Jacqueline begged Fraulein Schult to imagine something like the
passion of Bettina for Goethe--Fraulein Schult having told her that
story simply with a view of interesting her in German conversation only
the great man whose name she would not tell was not nearly so old as
Goethe, and she herself was much less childish than Bettina. But, above
all, it was his genius that attracted her--though his face, too, was
very pleasing. And she went on to describe his appearance--till
suddenly she stopped, burning with indignation; for she perceived that,
notwithstanding the minuteness of her description, what she said was
conveying an idea of ugliness and not one of the manly beauty she
intended to portray.

"He is not like that at all," she cried. "He has such a beautiful
smile-a smile like no other I ever saw. And his talk is so
amusing--and--" here Jacqueline lowered her voice as if afraid to be
overheard, "and I do think--I think, after all, he does love me--just a
little."

On what could she have founded such a notion? Good heaven!--it was on
something that had at first deeply grieved her, a sudden coldness and
reserve that had come over his manner to her. Not long before she had
read an English novel (no others were allowed to come into her hands).
It was rather a stupid book, with many tedious passages, but in it she
was told how the high-minded hero,