Sometimes I would see a sweet little boy six or eight years old playing
there; he was the son of the concierge. There was something in his face
which seemed that of a suffering angel; in his fair hair curled on his
forehead, and in his intelligent and ingenuous countenance, that
reminded me of the innocent faces of the children of my own province.
Indeed, I discovered that his family had come originally from a village
near that in which my father resided, had fallen into want, and had
been transplanted to Paris. This child had conceived a fondness for me,
from seeing me always at the window above the rooms his mother
inhabited, and had of his own accord and gratuitously devoted himself
to my service. He executed all my messages; brought me my bread, some
cheese, or the fruit for my breakfast; and went every morning to
purchase my little provisions at the grocer's. I used to take my frugal
repast on my writing-table, in the midst of my open books or
interrupted pages. The child had a black dog, which had been forgotten
at the house by some visitor; this dog had ended like the child by
attaching itself to me, and they could not be made to go down the
little wooden stairs when once they had ascended them.
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