Criticising himself, honestly admiring himself, floating on the
current of his thoughts, he then lost himself in one of those
meditative moods which ravish and elevate the soul, soothe it,
and comfort it. His reverie had no doubt lasted a long time.
Night fell. Whether he meant to come down from his perch, or
whether he made some ill-judged movement, believing himself to be
on the floor--the event did not allow of his remembering exactly
the cause of his accident--he fell, his head struck a footstool,
he lost consciousness and lay motionless during a space of time
of which he knew not the length.

A sweet voice roused him from the stunned condition into which he
had sunk. When he opened his eyes the flash of a bright light
made him close them again immediately; but through the mist that
veiled his senses he heard the whispering of two women, and felt
two young, two timid hands on which his head was resting. He soon
recovered consciousness, and by the light of an old-fashioned
Argand lamp he could make out the most charming girl's face he
had ever seen, one of those heads which are often supposed to be
a freak of the brush, but which to him suddenly realized the
theories of the ideal beauty which every artist creates for
himself and whence his art proceeds. The features of the unknown
belonged, so to say, to the refined and delicate type of
Prudhon's school, but had also the poetic sentiment which Girodet
gave to the inventions of his phantasy. The freshness of the
temples, the regular arch of the eyebrows, the purity of outline,
the virginal innocence so plainly stamped on every feature of her
countenance, made the girl a perfect creature. Her figure was
slight and graceful, and frail in form. Her dress, though simple
and neat, revealed neither wealth nor penury.