the other had been valiant
before the enemy; and that that was, no doubt, what the colonel had
meant to imply by the words: "He will be worthy of it." Words which
Marius continued to wear, not on his breast, since the colonel's writing
had disappeared, but in his heart.

And then, on the day when his grandfather had turned him out of doors,
he had been only a child, now he was a man. He felt it. Misery, we
repeat, had been good for him. Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, has
this magnificent property about it, that it turns the whole will towards
effort, and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty instantly lays
material life bare and renders it hideous; hence inexpressible bounds
towards the ideal life. The wealthy young man has a hundred coarse and
brilliant distractions, horse races, hunting, dogs, tobacco, gaming,
good repasts, and all the rest of it; occupations for the baser side
of the soul, at the expense of the loftier and more delicate sides.
The poor young man wins his bread with difficulty; he eats; when he has
eaten, he has nothing more but meditation. He goes to the spectacles
which God furnishes gratis; he gazes at the sky, space, the stars,
flowers, children, the humanity among which he is suffering, the
creation amid which he beams. He gazes so much on humanity that he
perceives its soul, he gazes upon creation to such an extent that he
beholds God. He dreams, he feels himself great; he dreams on, and feels
himself tender. From the egotism of the man who suffers he passes to the
compassion of the man who meditates. An admirable sentiment breaks forth
in him, forgetfulness of self and pity for all. As he thinks of the
innumerable enjoyments which nature offers, gives, and lavishes to souls
which stand open, and refuses to souls that are closed, he comes to
pity, he the millionnaire of the mind, the millionnaire of money. All
hatred departs from his heart, in proportion as light penetrates his
spirit. And is he unhappy? No. The misery of a young man is never
miserable. The first young lad who comes to hand, however poor he may
be, with his strength, his health, his rapid walk, his brilliant eyes,
his warmly circulating blood, his black hair, his red lips, his white
teeth, his pure breath, will always arouse the envy of an aged emperor.
And then, every morning, he sets himself afresh to the task of earning
his bread; and while his hands earn his bread, his dorsal column
gains pride, his brain gathers i