d you know it; I have said so a hundred
times; you must have understood me. I would not take upon me the airs
of a coxcomb, nor would I flatter you, nor urge myself upon you like a
fool; I would not owe your love to such arts as these! so I have been
misunderstood. What sufferings have I not endured for your sake! For
these, however, you were not to blame; but in a few minutes you shall
decide for yourself. There are two kinds of poverty, madame. One kind
openly walks the street in rags, an unconscious imitator of Diogenes,
on a scanty diet, reducing life to its simplest terms; he is happier,
maybe, than the rich; he has fewer cares at any rate, and accepts such
portions of the world as stronger spirits refuse. Then there is poverty
in splendor, a Spanish pauper, concealing the life of a beggar by his
title, his bravery, and his pride; poverty that wears a white waistcoat
and yellow kid gloves, a beggar with a carriage, whose whole career will
be wrecked for lack of a halfpenny. Poverty of the first kind belongs to
the populace; the second kind is that of blacklegs, of kings, and of men
of talent. I am neither a man of the people, nor a king, nor a swindler;
possibly I have no talent either, I am an exception. With the name I
bear I must die sooner than beg. Set your mind at rest, madame,' I
said; 'to-day I have abundance, I possess sufficient of the clay for my
needs'; for the hard look passed over her face which we wear whenever a
well-dressed beggar takes us by surprise. 'Do you remember the day
when you wished to go to the Gymnase without me, never believing that I
should be there?' I went on.

"She nodded.

"'I had laid out my last five-franc piece that I might see you
there.--Do you recollect our walk in the Jardin des Plantes? The hire of
your cab took everything I had.'

"I told her about my sacrifices, and described the life I led; heated
not with wine, as I am to-day, but by the generous enthusiasm of my
heart, my passion overflowed in burning words; I have forgotten how the
feelings within me blazed forth; neither memory nor skill of mine
could possibly reproduce it. It was no colorless chronicle of blighted
affections; my love was strengthened by fair hopes; and such words came
to me, by love's inspiration, that each had power to set forth a whole
life--like echoes of the cries of a soul in torment. In such tones the
last prayers ascend from dying men on the battlefield. I stopped, for
she was weeping. _G