paul knew by heart many verses of a forbidden poet named alfred de musset. the strange quality of these verses troubled me, and yet i was fascinated by them. in class he would whisper them, in a scarcely perceptible voice, into my ear; and although my conscience accused me, i used to allow him to begin:

jacque was very quiet as he looked at marie,

i know not what that sleeping maiden

had of mystery in her features, the noblest ever seen.

in my brother's study, where from time to time, when i was overwhelmed with sorrow over his departure, i isolated myself, i had seen on a shelf in his book-case a large volume of this poet's works, and often i had been tempted to take it down; but my parents had said to me: “you are not to touch any of the books that are there without permission from us,” and my conscience always gave me pause.

as to asking for permission, i knew only too well that my request would be refused.