hills of Chambéry. Want of fortune restricted the two poor lovers to a
hopeless and tender friendship, from the fear of lowering the name of
their family in poverty, or of bequeathing indigence to children. The
young girl died some years after, of solitude and hopelessness. I have
never seen a sweeter face droop and die for the want of a few of
fortune's rays. Her countenance, where might be traced the remains of
blooming youth, equally ready to revive or to fade forever, bore in the
highest degree the sublime and touching impress of that virtue of the
unhappy, called resignation. She became blind in consequence of the
secret tears she shed during her long years of expectation and
uncertainty. I met her once, on my return from one of my journeys to
Italy. She was led by the hand through the streets of Chambéry, by one
of her little sisters. When she heard my voice, she turned pale, and
felt for some support with her poor hesitating hand: "Pardon me," she
said; "but when I used formerly to hear that voice, I always heard with
it another." Poor girl! she now listens to her lover's voice in heaven.




LI.


How long were the two months that I had to pass away from Julie in my
father's house, before the time came that I could join her in Paris!
During the last three or four months, I had exhausted the allowance I
received from my father, the secret resources of my mother's
indulgence, and the purse of my friends, to pay the debts that
dissipation, play, and my travels had made me contract. I had no means
of obtaining the small sum I required to go to Paris, and to live there