to acquire that wide general knowledge so necessary in these days to
every man who wants to make his mark, 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