“You are fond of your balcony, fellow-student,” said she.  “I often hear you out here.”

“My room gets heated,” I replied, “and my eyes weary, after several hours of hard reading; and this keen, clear air puts new life into one’s brains.”

“Yes, it is delicious,” said she, looking up into the night.  “How dark the space of heaven is, and, how bright are the stars!  What a night for the Alps!  What a night to be upon some Alpine height, watching the moon through a good telescope, and waiting for the sunrise!”

“Defer that wish for a few months,” I replied smiling.  “You would scarcely like Switzerland in her winter robes.”

“Nay, I prefer Switzerland in winter,” she said.  “I passed through part of the Jura about ten days ago, and saw nothing but snow.  It was magnificent—­like a paradise of pure marble awaiting the souls of all the sculptors of all the ages.”

“A fantastic idea,” said I, “and spoken like an artist.”

“Like an artist!” she repeated, musingly.  “Well, are not all students artists?”

“Not those who study the exact sciences—­not the student of law or divinity—­nor he who, like myself, is a student of medicine.  He is the slave of Fact, and Art is the Eden of his banishment.  His imagination is for ever captive.  His horizon is for ever bounded.  He is fettered by routine, and paralyzed by tradition.  His very ideas must put on the livery of his predecessors; for in a profession where originality of thought stands for the blackest shade of original sin, skill—­mere skill—­must be the end of his ambition.”

She looked at me, and the moonlight showed me that sad smile which her lips so often wore.

“You do not love your profession,” she said.

“I do not, indeed.”

“And yet you labor zealously to acquire it—­how is that?”

“How is it with hundreds of others?  My profession was chosen for me.  I am not my own master.”

“But are you sure you would be happier in some other pursuit?  Supposing, for instance, that you were free to begin again, what career do you think you would prefer?”

“I scarcely know, and I should scarcely care, so long as there was freedom of thought and speculation in it.”

“Geology, perhaps—­or astronomy,” she suggested, laughingly.

“Merci!  The bowels of the earth are too profound, and the heavens too lofty for me.  I should choose some pursuit that would set the Ariel of the imagination free.  That is to say, I could be very happy if my life were devoted to Science, but my soul echoes to the name of Art.”

“’The artist creates—­the man of science discovers,” said Hortense.  “Beware lest you fancy you would prefer the work of creation only because you lack patience to pursue the work of discovery.  Pardon me, if I suggest that you may, perhaps, be fitted for neither.  Your sphere, I fancy, is reflection—­comparison—­criticism.  You are not made for action, or work.  Your taste is higher than your ambition, and you love learning better than fame.  Am I right?”