There were passions in this young man, as in most of the men who live in that way, of amazing profundity,—­passions too vast to be drawn into petty incidents.  His want of means compelled him to lead an ascetic life, and he conquered his fancies by hard work.  After paling all day over figures, he found his recreation in striving obstinately 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 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 fortunate events.  Every one envied his happiness; and henceforth talked only of his luck, without recalling either his virtues or his courage.