We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us! He, accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the clock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it which lies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy government office; sending his mother all his savings, that farthing of human joy which the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except for the happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had been a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, so inexorable, during the time that with him had been a round of toil, what had I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?
What I have said in a page can be comprehended in a moment. He spoke to me of our journey and the countries we were going to visit.
"When do you go?" he asked.
"I do not know; Madame Pierson is indisposed, and has been confined to her bed for three days."
"For three days!" he repeated, in surprise.
"Yes; why are you astonished?"
He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. He was trembling violently.
"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand to his head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently to speak, he said:
"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when I have sufficiently recovered I will return your visit."