everything about him was faultless.

Madame Gallait, a Parisian by birth, was the very embodiment of the
French woman in the most charming sense of the word, and the bond which
united her to her husband seemed enduring and as if woven by the
cheeriest gods of love. Unfortunately, it did not last.

After leaving Hirsau, we again met the Gallaits in Wildbad and spent
some delightful days with them. The Von Burckhardts, Fran Henrietta
Hallberger, the wife of the Stuttgart publisher, the Puricellis,
ourselves, and later the author Moritz Hartmann, were the only persons
with whom they associated. We always met every afternoon at a certain
place in the grounds, where we talked or some one read aloud. On these
occasions, at Gallait's suggestion, everybody who was so disposed
sketched. My portrait, which he drew for my mother at that time in black
and red pencils, is now in my wife's possession. I also took my sketch-
book, for he had seen the school volume I had filled with arabesques just
before leaving Keilhau, and I still remember the 'merveilleux and
incroyable, inoui, and insense' which he lavished on the certainly
extravagant creatures of my love-sick imagination.

During these exercises in drawing he related many incidents of his own
life, and never was he more interesting than while describing his first
success.

He was the son of a poor widow in the little Belgian town of Tournay.
While a school-boy he greatly enjoyed drawing, and an able teacher
perceived his talent.

Once he saw in the newspaper an Antwerp competition for a prize. A