of the course of lectures at the Ecole de
Droit, Rue Saint-Jean-de-Beauvais. This
Quartier Saint Jaques, where my youth was
spent in studious solitude, was as dear to me
as a second country; I loved that interesting
population of booksellers and antiquarians,
who printed and sold under the patronage of
the University. In their shops, and in the
midst of their family of volumes, I passed the
sweetest moments, and found the most lively
pleasures; for I still wore my white robe of
innocence, and a coat of coarse stuff rubbed
at the elbows, with breeches of drugget (long
since well ripened at the knees) and speckled
stockings that displayed the meagre outlines
of my calves.

But behold, one fine morning, adieu to
booksellers, ancient and modern; adieu to
black-letter editions and parchment
manuscripts! I fell in love, dumbly, patiently,
expectantly in love. You know nothing about
the state of a bibliophile who transfers his
love of paper, printing, and binding, to a
single animated object of recent date; a new
and rare work which can be revised and
augmented; whose first page is still maiden, and
which is guarded with more jealousy than an
ancient Elzevir.

In a house on the other side of the street,
at an attic window opposite to my garret, I
perceived a fair pretty face, which I regarded
with complaisance. Melancholy blue eyes,
a cherry mouth, modest and inviting expression,
curling hair untouched by powder, a
nymph-like figure unencumbered by hoop-petticoats,
charming arms, and a goddess's
bosom, which my indiscreet eyes caught a
glimpse of through the folds of the neckerchief;
the least of these perfections would
have been enough to soften a harder heart
and disorder a stronger head than mine.

Nevertheless, she was only a book-stitcher
who worked for M. Barbon's library. She
was twenty years old, and had only her little
chamber and her liberty, although many
of the Latin classics had already passed
through her hands. Her name was plain
Nanette; and her face might serve her
instead of letters of nobility, since the
Comtesse Dubarry rose from a lower station -- and
Louis the Fifteenth's was a petticoat
government.

Still Nanette was discreet, and stuck to
her stitching. The neighbourhood of the
colleges, the schools, and the encyclopedists,
had not prevailed against her virtue; or
rather, a love which she concealed preserved
her from the dangers to which she was
exposed by her beauty and her inexperience,
from young and old libertines. As to me,
who observed her at every hour of the day,
and even of the night, without remarking the
shadow of a man in her room, or the slightest
equivocal symptom in her conduct, I allowed
myself to be seduced by these austere
appearances; and I gradually became enthusiastic
about the most chaste and the most adorable
of book-stitchers, without having the courage
to address a single word to her.

She was in the habit of bringing her work
before an open window, doubtless to be nearer
to the light, which hardly penetrated to the
back of her attic; but I persuaded myself,
in spite of the denials of diffidence, that I
was not unconnected with those long pauses,
during which I simply believed I was the
only object of the looks and smiles which
seemed to reach me in a direct line. I began
to imitate the book-stitcher by installing
myself at my window between piles of
old volumes, whose leaves I inattentively
turned over without being intoxicated by
their learned dust; my eyes were directed
towards my neighbour, who seemed to take
pleasure in my following her example of
turning papers about, and who managed the
rustling of the printed leaves in a sort of
regular cadence, which made harmonious
music in the ears of a bibliophile.

In the course of a mouth I collated more
than a hundred folio volumes, while Nanette
stitched more than a hundred duodecimos.
In love, the act of gazing is the burning
mirror of Archimedes, which set fire to ships
sailing in the open sea.

I soon forgot that the width of the street
separated us, and I sent forth sighs, which
were re-echoed. My joy was at its height,
because I imagined that I had hunted to bay
that innocence which was intimidated, whose
outworks were stormed, and which only
required to make an honourable capitulation;
so true is it, that a man blindly in love can
see nothing, not even in broad sunshine! I
ventured to employ the offensive arms of
signs with the head, inviting grimaces, the
telegraphic language of gestures, flying kisses,
and letters; but no answer was given to
these regular modes of attack, which I
directed with all the art of Ovid and of
Gentil Bernard. The book-stitcher only
blushed with downcast eyes, or redoubled her
industry without looking at my window, or
turned round to laugh, or even, after having
tried to keep a serious countenance, lost her
temper, and retreated from the window. I
attributed these different manoeuvres to
coquetry and female cunning. Poor novice
that I was!

In the upper story, and over my chamber,
there lodged a young theologian, whose
friends -- rich agriculturists of Picardy --
destined him for the ecclesiastical profession.
He had been sent for this purpose to study,
at Paris, the Sorbonne sacred and canon law,
under père Riballier, who, after the illustrious
dom Calmet, was the first doctor of religious
science, and who was to acquire so ridiculous
a reputation for his criticism of the
"Belisaire " of M. de Marmontel.

Athanase Gerbier -- such was the name of
the apprentice priest -- united in his person
all sorts of qualities which could be useless
to a churchman, who desires only to gain the