y had to leap out at the first gasp to be at her side in
a moment.

The young man led the life of a child. He passed his existence in this
lonely spot. Like his father, he felt a dislike for taverns and Sunday
strolling. His mates wounded his delicate susceptibilities by their
coarse jokes. He preferred to read, to rack his rain over some simple
geometrical problem. Since aunt Dide had entrusted him with the
little household commissions she did not go out at all, but ceased all
intercourse even with her family. The young man sometimes thought of her
forlornness; he reflected that the poor old woman lived but a few steps
from the children who strove to forget her, as though she were dead;
and this made him love her all the more, for himself and for the others.
When he at times entertained a vague idea that aunt Dide might be
expiating some former transgressions, he would say to himself: "I was
born to pardon her."

A nature such as Silvere's, ardent yet self-restrained, naturally
cherished the most exalted republican ideas. At night, in his little
hovel, Silvere would again and again read a work of Rousseau's which he
had picked up at the neighbouring dealer's among a number of old locks.
The reading of this book kept him awake till daylight. Amidst his dream
of universal happiness so dear to the poor, the words liberty, equality,
fraternity, rang in his ears like those sonorous sacred calls of the
bells, at the sound of which the faithful fall upon their knees. When,
therefore, he learnt that the Republic had just been proclaimed in
France he fancied that the whole world would enjoy a life of celestial
beatitude. His knowledge, though imperfect, made him see farther than
other workmen; his aspirations did not stop at daily bread; but his
extreme ingenuousness, his complete ignorance of mankind, kept him
in the dreamland of theory, a Garden of Eden where universal justice
reigned. His paradise was for a long time a delightful spot in which he
forgot himself.

When he came to perceive that things did not go on quite satisfactorily
in the best of republics he was sorely grieved, and indulged in another
dream, that of compelling men to be happy even by force. Every act which
seemed to him prejudicial to the interest of the people roused him to
revengeful indignation. Though he was as gentle as a child, he cherished
the fiercest political animosity. He would not have killed a fly, and
yet he was for ever talking of a call