ed him to support his mother and sister.

His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; he
deprived himself of everything for them, and although he possessed
musical talents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the
immediate needs of those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, had
always led him to prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances of
success in larger ventures.

In a word, he belonged to that small class who live quietly, and who
are worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I had
learned of certain traits in his character which will serve to paint
the man he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighborhood,
and, after a year of devotion to her, had secured her parents' consent
to their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to be
signed, the preparations for the wedding were complete, when his mother
said:

"And your sister? Who will marry her?"

That simple remark made him understand that if he married he would spend
all his money in the household expenses and his sister would have
no dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy
prospects; he then came to Paris.

When I heard that story I wished to see the hero. That simple,
unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the
glories of war.

The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach
the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me,
that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually my
thoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemed
to me that he was also examining me with curiosity.

We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!
He, accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the
clock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it which
lies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy government
office; sending his mother all his savings, that farthing of human joy
which the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except for
the happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had
been a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, so
inexorable, during the time that with him had been a round of toil, what
had I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?

What I have said in a page can be comprehended in a moment. He spoke to
me of our