almost made me shiver; after a
moment's silence, he continued:

"I will tell you what my troubles have been; perhaps it will do me good
to speak about them."

"Let me hear them."

"Do you really wish it?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then. You remember what I was at school; a sort of poet,
brought up in a chemist's shop. I dreamt of writing books, and I tried
it, after taking my degree, but I did not succeed. I published a volume
of verse, and then a novel, and neither of them sold, and then I wrote a
play, which was never acted."

"Next, I lost my heart, but I will not give you an account of my
passion. Next door to my father's shop, there was a tailor's, who had a
daughter, with whom I fell in love. She was very clever, and had
obtained her certificates for higher education, and her mind was bright
and active, quite in keeping indeed with her body. She might have been
taken for fifteen, although she was two-and-twenty. She was very small,
with delicate features, outlines and tints, just like some beautiful
water color. Her nose, her mouth, her blue eyes, her light hair, her
smile, her waist, her hands, all looked as if they were fit for a
stained window, and not for everyday life, but she was lively, supple,
and incredibly active, and I was very much in love with her. I remember
two or three walks in the Luxembourg Garden, near the _Medices_
fountain, which were certainly the happiest hours of my life. I dare say
you have known that foolish condition of tender madness, which causes us
to think of nothing but of acts of adoration! One really becomes
possessed, haunted by a woman, and nothing exists for us, by the side of
her.

"We soon became engaged, and I told her my projects of the future, which
she did not approve of. She did not believe that I was either a poet, a
novelist, or a dramatic author, and thought a prosperous business could
afford perfect happiness. So I gave up the idea of writing books, and
resigned myself to selling them, and I bought a bookseller's business at
Marseilles, the owner of which had just died.

"I had three very prosperous years. We had made our shop into a sort of
literary drawing-room, where all the men of letters in the town used to
come and talk. They came in, as if it had been a club, and exchanged
ideas on books, on poets, and especially on politics. My wife, who took
a very active part in the business, enjoyed quite a reputation in the
town, but, as for me, while they were all