eyes at her. The lover was backed up in his suit by the guardian of
Constance, Monsieur Claude-Joseph Pillerault, at that time an
ironmonger on the Quai de la Ferraille, whom the young man had finally
discovered by devoting himself to the subterraneous spying which
distinguishes a genuine love.

The rapidity of this narrative compels us to pass over in silence the
joys of Parisian love tasted with innocence, the prodigalities
peculiar to clerkdom, such as melons in their earliest prime, choice
dinners at Venua's followed by the theatre, Sunday jaunts to the
country in hackney-coaches. Without being handsome, there was nothing
in Cesar's person which made it difficult to love him. The life of
Paris and his sojourn in a dark shop had dulled the brightness of his
peasant complexion. His abundant black hair, his solid neck and
shoulders like those of a Norman horse, his sturdy limbs, his honest
and straightforward manner, all contributed to predispose others in
his favor. The uncle Pillerault, whose duty it was to watch over the
happiness of his brother's daughter, made inquiries which resulted in
his sanctioning the wishes of the young Tourangian. In the year 1800,
and in the pretty month of May, Mademoiselle Pillerault consented to
marry Cesar Birotteau, who fainted with joy at the moment when, under
a linden at Sceaux, Constance-Barbe-Josephine Pillerault accepted him
as her husband.

"My little girl," said Monsieur Pillerault, "you have won a good
husband. He has a warm heart and honorable feelings; he is true as
gold, and as good as an infant Jesus,--in fact, a king of men."

Constance frankly abdicated the more brilliant destiny to which, like
all shop-girls, she may at times have aspired. She wished to be an