For two months Nicolas kept silent respecting the designs which he was
now maturing. He was extremely discreet, as are all men of great energy,
who reflect before they act. He must go, that was certain, since neither
space nor sufficiency of sunlight remained for him in the cradle of his
birth; but if he went off alone, would that not be going in an imperfect
state, deficient in the means needed for the heroic task of populating
and clearing a new land? He knew a girl of Janville, one Lisbeth Moreau,
who was tall and strong, and whose robust health, seriousness, and
activity had charmed him. She was nineteen years of age, and, like
Nicolas, she stifled in the little nook to which destiny had confined
her; for she craved for the free and open air, yonder, afar off. An
orphan, and long dependent on an aunt, who was simply a little village
haberdasher, she had hitherto, from feelings of affection, remained
cloistered in a small and gloomy shop. But her aunt had lately died,
leaving her some ten thousand francs, and her dream was to sell the
little business, and go away and really live at last. One October
evening, when Nicolas and Lisbeth told one another things that they had
never previously told anybody, they came to an understanding.
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