Эжен Сю
The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 4 of 6
CHAPTER XIV
RECOLLECTIONS
Jacques Ferrand had quickly and readily obtained the liberty of Fleur-de-Marie, which, indeed, only required a simple official order. Instructed by the Chouette of La Goualeuse being at St. Lazare, he had immediately applied to one of his clients, an honourable and influential man, saying that a young female who had once erred, but afterwards sincerely repented, being now confined in St. Lazare, was in danger of forgetting her good resolutions, in consequence of her association with the other prisoners. This young girl having been (added the notary) strongly recommended to him by persons of high respectability, who wanted to take care of her when she quitted the prison, he besought his client, in the name of religion, virtue, and the future return to goodness of the poor girl, to interest himself in obtaining her liberation. And, further to screen himself from all chance of future consequences, the notary most earnestly charged his client not to allow his name to transpire in the business on any account, as he was desirous of avoiding any mention of having been employed in the furtherance of so good and charitable a work.
This request, which was attributed to the unassuming modesty and benevolence of Jacques Ferrand, a man equally esteemed for his piety as for honour and probity, was strictly complied with, the liberation of Fleur-de-Marie being asked and obtained in the client's name alone; and by way of evincing a still greater regard for the shrinking delicacy of the notary's nature, the order for quitting the prison was sent under cover to Jacques Ferrand, that he might send it on to the parties interesting themselves for the young girl. And when Madame Séraphin presented the order to the directors of the prison, she stated herself to have been sent by the parties feeling a desire to save the young person it referred to.
From the favourable manner in which the matron of the prison had spoken to Madame d'Harville of Fleur-de-Marie, not a doubt existed as to its being to that lady La Goualeuse was indebted for her return to freedom. There was, therefore, no chance of the appearance of Madame Séraphin exciting any mistrust in the mind of her victim. Madame Séraphin could so well assume the look and manner of what is commonly styled "a nice motherly kind of person," that it required a more than ordinary share of penetration to discover a strong proportion of falsehood, deceit, and cunning behind the smooth glance or the hypocritical smile; but, spite of the hardened villainy with which she had shared so long and deeply in the nefarious practices of her employer, Madame Séraphin, old and hackneyed as she was, could not view without emotion the exquisite loveliness of the being her own hand had surrendered, even as a child, to the cruel care of the Chouette, and whom she was now leading to an inevitable death.
"Well, my dear," cried Madame Séraphin, speaking in a tone of honeyed sweetness, as Fleur-de-Marie drew near, "I suppose you are very glad to get away from prison."
"Oh, yes, indeed, ma'am. I presume it is Madame d'Harville who has had the goodness to obtain my liberty for me?"
"You are not mistaken in your guess. But, come, we are already a little behindhand, and we have still some distance to go."
"We are going to Madame Georges at the farm at Bouqueval, are we not, madame?" cried La Goualeuse.
"Oh, yes, certainly, by all means!" answered the femme de charge, in order to avert all suspicion from the mind of her victim. "Yes, my dear, we are going into the country, as you say;" and then added, with a sort of good-humoured teasing, "But that is not all; before you see Madame Georges, a little surprise awaits you – Come, come, our coach is waiting below! Ah, how you will be astonished by and by! Come, then, let us go. Your most obedient servant, gentlemen!"
And, with a multitude of bows and salutations from Madame Séraphin to the registrar, his clerk, and all the various members of the establishment then and there assembled, she descended the stairs with La Goualeuse, followed by an officer, to command the opening of the gates through which they had to pass. The last had just closed behind them, and the two females found themselves beneath the vast porch which looks out upon the street of the Faubourg St. Denis, when they nearly ran against a young female, who appeared hurrying towards the prison, as though full of anxiety to visit one of its inmates. It was Rigolette, as pretty and light-footed as ever, her charming face set off by a simple yet becoming cap, tastefully ornamented with cherry-coloured riband; while her dark brown hair was laid in bright glossy bands down each clear and finely rounded cheek. She was wrapped in a plaid shawl, over which fell a snowy muslin collar, secured by a small knot of riband. On her arm she carried a straw basket; while, thanks to her light, careful way of picking her steps, her thick-soled boots were scarcely soiled; and yet the poor girl had walked far that day.
"Rigolette!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, as she recognised her old prison companion, and the sharer in her rural excursions.7
"La Goualeuse!" returned the grisette, and with one accord the two girls threw themselves into each other's arms.
Nothing more touchingly beautiful could be imagined than the contrast between these two young creatures, both so lovely, though differing so entirely from one another in appearance: the one exquisitely fair, with large, melancholy blue eyes, and an outline of feature of faultless purity, the pale, pensive, intellectual cast of the whole countenance reminding the observer of one of those sweet designs of a village maid by Greuze, – the same clear delicacy of complexion, the same ineffable mixture of graceful pensiveness and candid innocence; the other a sparkling brunette, with round rosy cheek and bright black eyes, set off by a laughing, dimpled face and mirthful air, – the very impersonation of youthful gaiety and light-heartedness, the rare and touching specimen of happy poverty, of contented labour, and honest industry!
After the first burst of their affectionate greetings had passed away, the two girls regarded each other with close and tender scrutiny. The features of Rigolette were radiant with the joy she experienced at this unexpected meeting; Fleur-de-Marie, on the contrary, felt humbled and confused at the sight of her early friend, which recalled but too vividly to her mind the few days of peaceful calm she had known previous to her first degradation.
"Dear, dear Goualeuse!" exclaimed the grisette, fixing her bright eyes with intense delight on her companion. "To think of meeting you at last, after so long an absence!"
"It is, indeed, a delightful surprise!" replied Fleur-de-Marie. "It is so very long since we have seen each other."
"Ah, but now," said Rigolette, for the first time remarking the rustic habiliments of La Goualeuse, "I can account for seeing nothing of you during the last six months, – you live in the country, I see?"
"Yes," answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes, "I have done so for some time past."
"And I suppose that, like me, you have come to see some friend in this prison?"
"Yes," stammered poor Fleur-de-Marie, blushing up to her eyes with shame and confusion; "I was going – I mean I have just been seeing some one, and, of course, am now returning home."
"You live a good way out of Paris, I dare say? Ah, you dear, kind girl! It is just like you to come all this distance to perform a good action. Do you remember the poor lying-in woman to whom you gave, not only your mattress, with the necessary baby-clothes, but even what money you had left, and which we meant to have spent in a country excursion; for you were then crazy for the country, my pretty village maid?"
"And you, who cared nothing about it, how very good-natured and obliging of you to go thither, merely for the sake of pleasing me!"
"Well, but I pleased myself at the same time. Why, you, who were always inclined to be grave and serious, when once you got among the fields, or found yourself in the thick shade of a wood, oh, then, what a wild, overjoyed little madcap you became! Nobody would have fancied it the same person, – flying after the butterflies, – crowding your hands and apron with more flowers than either could hold. It made me quite delighted to see you! It was quite treat enough for a week to recollect all your happiness and enjoyment. But do let me have another look at you: how sweetly pretty you look in that nice little round cap! Yes, decidedly, you were cut out to be a country girl, – just as much as I was to be a Paris grisette. Well, I hope you are happy, since you have got the sort of line you prefer; and, certainly, after all, I cannot say I was so very much astonished at your never coming near me. 'Oh,' said I, 'that dear Goualeuse is not suited for Paris; she is a true wild flower, as the song says; and the air of great cities is not for them. So,' said I, 'my pretty, dear Goualeuse has found a place in some good honest family who live in the country.' And I was right, was I not, dear?"
"Yes," said Fleur-de-Marie, nearly sinking with confusion, "quite right."
"There is only one thing I have to reproach you for."
"Reproach me?" inquired Fleur-de-Marie, looking tearfully at her companion.
"Yes, you ought to have let me know before you went. You should have said 'good-bye,' if you were only leaving me at night to return in the morning; or, at any rate, you should have sent me word how you were going on."
"I – I – quitted Paris so suddenly," stammered out Fleur-de-Marie, becoming momentarily more and more embarrassed, "that, indeed – I – was not able – "
"Oh, I'm not at all angry! I don't speak of it to scold you! I am far too happy in meeting you unexpectedly; and, besides, I commend you for getting out of such a dangerous place as Paris, where it is so difficult to earn a quiet livelihood; for, you know, two poor friendless girls like you and me might be led into mischief, without thinking of, or intending, any harm. When there is no person to advise, it leaves one so very defenceless; and then come a parcel of deceitful, flattering men, with their false promises, when, perhaps, want and misery are staring you in the face. There, for instance, do you recollect that pretty girl called Julie? – and Rosine, who had such a beautiful fair skin, and such coal black eyes?"
"Oh, yes, I recollect them very well!"
"Then, my dear Goualeuse, you will be extremely sorry to hear that they were both led astray, seduced, and deserted, till at last, from one unfortunate step to another, they have become like the miserable creatures confined in this prison!"
"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, hanging down her head, and blushing the deep blush of shame.
Rigolette, misinterpreting the real cause of her friend's exclamation, continued:
"I admit that their conduct is wrong, nay wicked; but then, you know, my dear Goualeuse, because you and I have been so fortunate as to preserve ourselves from harm, – you, because you have been living with good and virtuous people in the country, out of the reach of temptation; and I, because I had no time to waste in listening to a set of make-believe lovers; and also because I found greater pleasure in having a few birds, and in trying to get things a little comfortable and snug around me, – I say, it is not for you and me to be too severe with others; and God alone knows whether opportunity, deceit, and destitution may not have had much to do in causing the misery and disgrace of Julie and Rosine! And who can say whether, in their place, we might not have acted as they have done?"
"Alas!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, "I accuse them not; on the contrary, I pity them from my heart!"
"Come, come, my dear child!" interrupted Madame Séraphin, impatiently offering her arm to her victim, "you forget that I said we were already behind our time."
"Pray, madame, grant us a little more time," said Rigolette. "It is so very long since I saw my dear Goualeuse!"
"I should be glad to do so," replied Madame Séraphin, much annoyed at this meeting between the two friends; "but it is now three o'clock, and we have a long way to go. However, I will manage to allow you ten minutes longer gossip. So pray make the best of your time."
"And tell me, I pray, of yourself," said Fleur-de-Marie, affectionately pressing the hands of Rigolette between her own. "Are you still the same merry, light-hearted, and happy creature I always knew you?"
"I was happy and gay enough a few days ago; but now – "
"You sorrowful? I can hardly believe it."
"Ah, but indeed I am! Not that I am at all changed from what you always found me, – a regular Roger Bontemps, – one to whom nothing was a trouble. But then, you see, everybody is not like me; so that, when I see those I love unhappy, why, naturally, that makes me unhappy, too."
"Still the same kind, warm-hearted girl!"
"Why, who could help being grieved as I am? Just imagine my having come hither to visit a poor young creature, – a sort of neighbouring lodger in the house where I live, – as meek and mild as a lamb she was, poor thing! Well, she has been most shamefully and unjustly accused, – that she has; never mind of what just now! Her name is Louise Morel. She is the daughter of an honest and deserving man, a lapidary, who has gone mad in consequence of her being put in prison."
At the name of Louise Morel, one of the victims of the notary's villainy, Madame Séraphin started, and gazed earnestly at Rigolette. The features of the grisette were, however, perfectly unknown to her; nevertheless, from that instant, the femme de charge listened with an attentive ear to the conversation of the two girls.
"Poor thing," continued the Goualeuse; "how happy it must make her to find that you have not forgotten her in her misfortunes!"
"And that is not all; it really seems as though some spell hung over me! But, truly and positively, this is the second poor prisoner I have left my home to-day to visit! I have come a long way, and also from a prison, – but that was a place of confinement for men."
"You, Rigolette, – in a prison for men?"
"Yes, I have, indeed. I have a very dejected customer there, I can assure you. There, – you see my basket; it is divided in two parts, and each of my poor friends has an equal share in its contents. I have got some clean things here for poor Louise, and I have left a similar packet with Germain, – that is the name of my other poor captive. I cannot help feeling ready to cry when I think of our last interview. I know it will do no good, but still, for all that, the tears will come into my eyes."
"But what is it that distresses you so much?"
"Why, because, you see, poor Germain frets so much at being mixed up in his prison with the many bad characters that are there, that it has quite broken his spirits; he seems to have no taste, no relish for anything, has quite lost his appetite, and is wasting away daily. So, when I perceived the change, I said to myself: 'Oh, poor fellow, I see he eats nothing. I must make him something nice and delicate to tempt his appetite a little; he shall have one of those little dainties he used to be so fond of when he and I were next-room neighbours.' When I say dainties, of course I don't mean such as rich people expect by that name. No, no, my dish was merely some beautiful mealy potatoes, mashed with a little milk and sugar. Well, my dear Goualeuse, I prepared this for him, put it in a nice little china basin and took it to him in his prison, telling him I had brought him a little titbit he used once to be fond of, and which I hoped he would like as well as in former days. I told him I had prepared it entirely myself, hoping to make him relish it. But alas, no! What do you think?"
"Oh, what?"
"Why, instead of increasing his appetite, I only set him crying; for, when I displayed my poor attempts at cookery, he seemed to take no notice of anything but the basin, out of which he had been accustomed to see me take my milk when we supped together; and then he burst into tears, and, by way of making matters still better, I began to cry, too, although I tried all I could to restrain myself. You see how everything went against me. I had gone with the intention of enlivening his spirits, and, instead of that, there I was making him more melancholy than ever."
"Still, the tears he shed were, no doubt, sweet and consoling tears!"
"Oh, never mind what sort of tears they were, that was not the way I meant to have consoled him. But la! All this while I am talking to you of Germain as if you knew him. He is an old acquaintance of mine, one of the best young men in the world, as timid and gentle as any young girl could be, and whom I loved as a friend and a brother."
"Oh, then, of course, his troubles became yours also."
"To be sure. But just let me show you what a good heart he must have. When I was coming away, I asked him as usual what orders he had for me, saying jokingly, by way of making him smile, that I was his little housekeeper, and that I should be very punctual and exact in fulfilling whatever commissions he gave me, in order to remain in his employ. So then he, trying to smile in his turn, asked me to bring him one of Walter Scott's romances, which he had formerly read to me while I worked, – that romance was called 'Ivan – ' 'Ivanhoe,' that's it. I was so much amused with this book that Germain read it twice over to me. Poor Germain! How very, very kind and attentive he was!"
"I suppose he wished to keep it as a reminiscence of bygone days?"
"No doubt of it; for he bade me go to the library from whence we had had it, and to purchase the very same volumes that had so much entertained us, and which we had read together, – not merely to hire them, – yes, positively to buy them out and out; and you may imagine that was something of a sacrifice for him, for he is no richer than you or I."
"He must have a noble and excellent heart to have thought of it," said the Goualeuse, deeply touched.
"I declare you are as much affected by it as I was, my dear, kind Goualeuse! But then, you see, the more I felt ready to cry, the more I tried to laugh; for, to shed tears twice during a visit, intended to be so very cheering and enlivening as mine was, was rather too bad. So, to drive all those thoughts out of my head, I began to remind him of the amusing story of a Jew, – a person we read about in the romance I was telling you of. But the more I rattled away, and the greater nonsense I tried to talk, the faster the large round tears gathered in his eyes, and he kept looking at me with such an expression of misery as quite broke my heart. And so – and so – at last my voice quite failed me, and I could do nothing but mingle my sobs with his. He had not regained his composure when I left him, and I felt quite provoked with myself for my folly. 'If that is the way,' said I,'that I comfort and cheer up poor Germain, I think I had better stay away!' Really, when I remember all the fine things I intended to have said and done, by way of keeping up his spirits, I feel quite spiteful towards myself for having so completely failed."
At the name of Germain, another victim of the notary's unprincipled persecution, Madame Séraphin redoubled her before close attention.
"And what has this poor young man done to deserve being put in prison?" inquired Fleur-de-Marie.
"What has he done?" exclaimed Rigolette, whose grief became swallowed up in indignation; "why, he has had the misfortune to fall into the hands of a wicked old notary, – the same as persecutes poor Louise."
"Of her whom you have come to see?"
"To be sure; she lived as servant with this notary, and Germain was also with him as cashier. It is too long a story to tell you now, how or of what he unjustly accuses the poor fellow; but one thing is quite certain, and that is, that the wretch of a notary pursues these two unfortunate beings, who have never done him the least harm, with the most determined malice and hatred. However, never mind, – a little patience, 'every one in their turn,' – that's all." Rigolette uttered these last words with a peculiarity of manner and expression that created considerable uneasiness in the mind of Madame Séraphin. Instead, therefore, of preserving the distance she had hitherto observed, she at once joined in the conversation, saying to Fleur-de-Marie, with a kind and maternal air:
"My dear girl, it is really growing too late for us to wait any longer, – we must go; we are waited for, I assure you, with much anxiety. I am sorry to hurry you away, because I can well imagine how much you must be interested in what your friend is relating; for even I, who know nothing of the two young persons she refers to, cannot help feeling my very heart ache for their undeserved sufferings. Is it possible there can be people in the world as wicked as the notary you were mentioning? Pray, my dear mademoiselle, what may be the name of this bad man, – if I may make so bold as to ask?"
Although Rigolette entertained not the slightest suspicion of the sincerity of Madame Séraphin's affected sympathy, yet, recollecting how strictly Rodolph had enjoined her to observe the utmost secrecy respecting the protection he bestowed on both Germain and Louise, she regretted having been led away by her affectionate zeal for her friends to use such words, – "Patience; every one has his turn!"
"His name, madame, is Ferrand, – M. Jacques Ferrand, Notary," replied Rigolette, skilfully adding, by way of compensation for her indiscreet warmth, "and it is the more wicked and shameful of him to torment Louise and Germain as he does, because the poor things have not a friend upon earth but myself, and, God knows, it is little I can do besides wishing them well out of their troubles!"
"Dear me, – poor things!" observed Madame Séraphin. "Well, I'm sure I hoped it was otherwise when I heard you say, 'Patience; every one has their turn!' I supposed you reckoned for certain upon some powerful protector to defend these people against that dreadful notary."
"Alas, no, madame!" answered Rigolette, hoping to destroy any suspicion Madame Séraphin might still harbour; "such, I am sorry to say, is not the case. For who would be generous and disinterested enough to take the part of two poor creatures like my unfortunate friends against a rich and powerful man like M. Ferrand?"
"Oh, there are many good and noble-minded persons capable of performing so good an action," pursued Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's consideration, and with ill-restrained excitement; "I myself know one to whom it is equally a duty and a pleasure to succour and assist all who are in need or difficulty, – one who is beloved and valued by all good persons, as he is dreaded and hated by the bad."
Rigolette gazed on the Goualeuse with deep astonishment, and was just on the point of asserting that she, too (alluding to Rodolph), knew some one capable of courageously espousing the cause of the weak against the strong; but, faithful to the injunctions of her neighbour (as she styled the prince), she contented herself with merely saying, "Really, do you indeed know anybody capable of generously coming forward in defence of poor oppressed individuals, such as we have been talking of?"
"Indeed, I do. And, although I have already to solicit his goodness in favour of others also in severe trouble, yet, I am quite sure that, did he but know of the undeserved misfortunes of Louise and Germain, he would both rescue them from misery and punish their wicked persecutor; for his goodness and justice are inexhaustible."
Madame Séraphin surveyed her victim with surprise. "This girl," said she, mentally, "might be even more dangerous than we thought for. And, even if I had been weak enough to feel inclined to pity her, what I have just heard would have rendered the little 'accident,' which is to rid us of her, quite inevitable."
"Then, dear Goualeuse, since you have so valuable an acquaintance, I beseech of you to recommend poor Louise and Germain to his notice," said Rigolette, wisely considering that her two protégées would be all the better for obtaining two protectors instead of one. "And pray say that they do not in the least deserve their present wretched fate."
"Make yourself perfectly easy," returned Fleur-de-Marie; "I promise to try to interest M. Rodolph in favour of your poor friends."
"Who did you say?" exclaimed Rigolette, "M. Rodolph?"
"Yes," replied La Goualeuse; "do you know him?"
"M. Rodolph?" again repeated Rigolette, perfectly bewildered; "is he a travelling clerk?"
"I really don't know what he is. But why are you so much astonished?"
"Because I know a M. Rodolph!"
"Perhaps it is not the same."
"Well, describe yours. What is he like?"
"In the first place, he is young."
"So is mine."
"With a countenance full of nobleness and goodness."
"Precisely," exclaimed Rigolette, whose amazement increased. "Oh, it must be the very man! Is your M. Rodolph rather dark-complexioned, with a small moustache?"
"Yes, yes."
"Is he tall and thin, with a beautiful figure, and quite a fashionable, gentlemanly sort of air, – wonderfully so, considering he is but a clerk? Now, then, does your M. Rodolph answer to that description?"
"Perfectly," answered Fleur-de-Marie; "and I feel quite sure that we both mean the same. The only thing that puzzles me is your fancying he is a clerk."
"Oh, but I know he is. He told me so himself."
"And you know him intimately?"
"Why, he is my next-door neighbour."
"M. Rodolph is?"
"I mean next-room neighbour; because he occupies an apartment on the fourth floor, next to mine."
"He – M. Rodolph – lodges in the next room to you?"
"Why, yes. But what do you find so astonishing in a thing as simple as that? He only earns about fifteen or eighteen hundred francs a year, and, of course, he could not afford a more expensive lodging, – though, certainly, he does not strike me as being a very careful or economical person; for, bless his dear heart, he actually does not know the price of the clothes he wears."
"No, no, it cannot be the same M. Rodolph I am acquainted with," said Fleur-de-Marie, reflecting seriously; "oh, no, quite impossible!"
"I suppose yours is a pattern of order and exactness?"
"He of whom I spoke, I must tell you, Rigolette," said Fleur-de-Marie, with enthusiasm, "is all-powerful; his name is never pronounced but with love and veneration; there is something awe-inspiring in his very aspect, giving one the desire to kneel in his presence and offer humble respect to his goodness and greatness."
"Ah, then, it is no use trying the comparison any further, my dear Goualeuse; for my M. Rodolph is neither powerful, great, nor imposing. He is very good-natured and merry, and all that; but oh, bless you, as for being a person one would be likely to go on one's knees to, why, he is quite the reverse. He cares no more for ceremony than I do, and even promised me to come and help me clean my apartment and polish the floor. And then, instead of being awe-inspiring, he settled with me to take me out of a Sunday anywhere I liked to go. So that, you see, he can't be a very great person. But, bless you, what am I thinking of? It seems as if my heart were wholly engrossed by my Sunday pleasures, instead of recollecting these poor creatures shut up and deprived of their liberty in a prison. Ah, poor dear Louise – and poor Germain, too! Until they are restored to freedom there is no happiness for me!"
For several minutes Fleur-de-Marie remained plunged in a deep reverie; she all at once recalled to her remembrance that, at her first interview with Rodolph, at the house of the ogress, his language and manners resembled those of the usual frequenters of the tapis-franc. Was it not, then, possible that he might be playing the part of the travelling clerk, for the sake of some scheme he had in view? The difficulty consisted in finding any probable cause for such a transformation. The grisette, who quickly perceived the thoughtful meditation in which Fleur-de-Marie was lost, said, kindly:
"Never mind puzzling your poor brains on the subject, my dear Goualeuse; we shall soon find out whether we both know the same M. Rodolph. When you see yours, speak of me to him; when I see mine, I will mention you; by these means we shall easily discover what conclusion to come to."
"Where do you live, Rigolette?"
"No. 17 Rue du Temple."
"Come!" said Madame Séraphin (who had attentively listened to all this conversation) to herself, "that is not a bad thing to know. This all-powerful and mysterious personage, M. Rodolph, who is, no doubt, passing himself off for a travelling clerk, occupies an apartment adjoining that of this young mantua-maker, who appears to me to know much more than she chooses to own to; and this defender of the oppressed, it seems, is lodging in the same house with Morel and Bradamanti. Well, well, if the grisette and the travelling clerk continue to meddle with what does not concern them, I shall know where to lay my hand upon them."
"As soon as ever I have spoken with M. Rodolph," said the Goualeuse, "I will write to you, and give you my address where to send your answer; but tell me yours over again, I am afraid of forgetting it."
"Oh, dear, how fortunate! I declare I have got one of my cards with me! I remember a person I work for asked me to leave her one, to give a friend who wished to employ me. So I brought it out for that purpose; but I will give it to you, and carry her one another time." And here Rigolette handed to Fleur-de-Marie a small card, on which was written, in beautiful text-hand, "Mademoiselle Rigolette, Dressmaker, 17 Rue du Temple." "There's a beauty!" continued the grisette. "Oh, isn't it nicely done? Better, a good deal, than printing! Ah, poor dear Germain wrote me a number of cards long ago! Oh, he was so kind, so attentive! I don't know how it could have happened that I never found out half his good qualities till he became unfortunate; and now I continually reproach myself with having learned to love him so late."
