whether in society, or in commerce, at the bar,
or in politics or literature. The only peril these fine souls have to
fear comes from their own uprightness. They see some poor girl; they
love her; they marry her, and wear out their lives in a struggle between
poverty and love. The noblest ambition is quenched perforce by the
household account-book. Jules Desmarets went headlong into this peril.

He met one evening at his patron's house a girl of the rarest beauty.
Unfortunate men who are deprived of affection, and who consume the
finest hours of youth in work and study, alone know the rapid ravages
that passion makes in their lonely, misconceived hearts. They are so
certain of loving truly, all their forces are concentrated so quickly on
the object of their love, that they receive, while beside her, the most
delightful sensations, when, as often happens, they inspire none at
all. Nothing is more flattering to a woman's egotism than to divine this
passion, apparently immovable, and these emotions so deep that they have
needed a great length of time to reach the human surface. These poor
men, anchorites in the midst of Paris, have all the enjoyments of
anchorites; and may sometimes succumb to temptations. But, more often
deceived, betrayed, and misunderstood, they are rarely able to gather
the sweet fruits of a love which, to them, is like a flower dropped from
heaven.

One smile from his wife, a single inflection of her voice sufficed to
make Jules Desmarets conceive a passion which was boundless. Happily,
the concentrated fire of that secret passion revealed itself artlessly
to the woman who inspired it. These two beings then loved each other
religiously. To express all in a word, they clasped hands without shame
before the eyes of the world and went their way like two children,
brother and sister, passing serenely through a crowd where all made way
for them and admired them.

The young girl was in one of those unfortunate positions which human
selfishness entails upon children. She had no civil status; her name of
"Clemence" and her age were recorded only by a notary public. As for
her fortune, that was small indeed. Jules Desmarets was a happy man
on hearing these particulars. If Clemence had belonged to an opulent
family, he might have despaired of obtaining her; but she was only the
poor child of love, the fruit of some terrible adulterous passion; and
they were married. Then began for Jules Desmarets a series of