ons.

One day a great light shone for Jean-Marie. 'Could not riches be used
well?' he asked.

'In theory, yes,' replied the Doctor. 'But it is found in experience
that no one does so. All the world imagine they will be exceptional when
they grow wealthy; but possession is debasing, new desires spring up; and
the silly taste for ostentation eats out the heart of pleasure.'

'Then you might be better if you had less,' said the boy.

'Certainly not,' replied the Doctor; but his voice quavered as he spoke.

'Why?' demanded pitiless innocence.

Doctor Desprez saw all the colours of the rainbow in a moment; the stable
universe appeared to be about capsizing with him. 'Because,' said
he--affecting deliberation after an obvious pause--'because I have formed
my life for my present income. It is not good for men of my years to be
violently dissevered from their habits.'

That was a sharp brush. The Doctor breathed hard, and fell into
taciturnity for the afternoon. As for the boy, he was delighted with the
resolution of his doubts; even wondered that he had not foreseen the
obvious and conclusive answer. His faith in the Doctor was a stout piece
of goods. Desprez was inclined to be a sheet in the wind's eye after
dinner, especially after Rhone wine, his favourite weakness. He would
then remark on the warmth of his feeling for Anastasie, and with inflamed
cheeks and a loose, flustered smile, debate upon all sorts of topics, and
be feebly and indiscreetly witty. But the adopted stable-boy would not
permit himself to entertain a doubt that savoured of ingratitude. It is
quite true that a man may be a second father to you, and yet take too
much to drink; but the best natures are ever slow to accept such truths.

The Doctor thoroughly possessed his heart, but perhaps he exaggerated his
influence over his mind. Certainly Jean-Marie adopted some of his
master's opinions, but I have yet to learn that he ever surrendered one
of his own. Convictions existed in him by divine right; they were
virgin, unwrought, the brute metal of decision. He could add others
indeed, but he could not put away; neither did he care if they were
perfectly agreed among themselves; and his spiritual pleasures had
nothing to do with turning them over or justifying them in words. Words
were with him a mere accomplishment, like dancing. When he was by
himself, his pleasures were almost vegetable. He would slip into the
woods towards Acheres,