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 maiden¹
     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

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