The poor, the suffering, the ill-used, have joys ineffable; small things to them are worlds.

Etienne was bound by many a tie to the dwellers in the City of Sorrows.

His recent accession to grandeur had caused him terror only; love now shed within him the balm that created strength; he loved Love.
The next day Etienne rose early to hasten to his old house, where Gabrielle, stirred by curiosity and an impatience she did not acknowledge to herself, had already curled her hair and put on her prettiest costume.

Both were full of the eager desire to see each other again,--mutually fearing the results of the interview.

As for Etienne, he had chosen his finest lace, his best-embroidered mantle, his violet-velvet breeches; in short, those handsome habiliments which we connect in all memoirs of the time with the pallid face of Louis XIII., a face oppressed with pain in the midst of grandeur, like that of Etienne.