you see, inherits the same disease and will also die of it at no very distant time.  Georges Saint-Cyr never found anybody to take him up in life.  He was quite a lad when he lost his widowed mother, and his health was, even then, so bad and fitful that be could never work.  He tried his best; but what chef can afford to employ a youth who is always sending in doctor’s certificates to excuse his absence from his desk, and breaking down with headache or swooning on the floor in office-hours?  He was totally unfit to earn his living, and the little money he had would not suffice to keep him decently.  Moreover, in his delicate condition he positively needed comforts which to other lads would have been superfluous.  Still he managed to struggle on for some five years, getting copying-work and what-not to do in his own rooms, till he had contrived, by the time he was twenty-two, to save a little money.  His idea was to enter the medical profession and earn a livelihood by writing for scientific journals, for he had wits and was not without literary talent.  He was lodging then in a cheap quarter of Paris not far from the Ecole de Medecine.  Well, the poor boy passed his baccalaureat and entered on his first year.  He got through that pretty well, but then came the hospital work; and then, once more he broke down.  The rising at six o’clock on bitter cold winter mornings, the going out into the bleak early air sometimes thick with snow or sleet, the long attendance day after day in unwholesome wards and foetid post-mortem rooms; the afternoons spent over dissecting,—­all these things contributed to bring about a catastrophe.  He fell sick and took to his bed, and as he was quite alone in the world, his tutor, who was a kind-hearted man, undertook to see him through his illness, both as physician and as friend.  And when, after a few weeks, Georges was able to get about again, the professor, seeing how lonely the young man was, asked him to spend his Sundays and spare evenings with himself and his family in their little apartment au ca’nquieme of the rue Cluny.  For the professor was, of course, poor, working for five francs a lesson to private pupils; and a much more modest sum for class lectures such as those which Georges attended.  But all this mattered nothing to Georges.  He went gladly the very next Sunday to Dr. Le Noir’s, and there he met the professor’s daughter—­whom you have seen.  She was only just seventeen, and prettier then than she is now I doubt not, for her face is anxious and sorrowful now, and anxiety and sorrow are not becoming.  You don’t wonder that the young student fell in love with her.  The father, engrossed in his work, did not see what was going on, and so Pauline’s heart was won before the mischief could be stopped.  The young people themselves went to him hand in hand one evening and told him all about it.  Madame Le Noir had long been dead, and the professor