In spite of her mother's remonstrances she emptied the contents of her money-box into her pocket, and ran out of the house as fast as she could to his lodgings all alone. Alas! all her little savings were not enough to meet the rent which had accumulated for some weeks. What could she do? A happy thought struck her, and she went the round of the village, begging from the doctor, the priest, and the notary, until she had collected enough, not only to pay off the arrears of rent, but to purchase a few comforts besides.
"My poor little Pinson, what would you do without your Renée?"
No wonder she was popular owing to her intense sympathy for others, her exquisite eyes beaming with love and tenderness, and yet withal sparkling with fun, her smile for all, and her light girlish step. No wonder the poor looked upon her as something "outre tombe," an incarnate angel sent to minister unto them.
Anyone daring to speak disparagingly of Mam'selle Renée would have done so at the risk of his life. A fine horse-woman, she usually accompanied her father in the chase, and many a time she would run a race across country with him and the squire's son at break-neck pace. Ah, those were halcyon days indeed.
One day when she was about eighteen years old her mother was suddenly taken ill with pneumonia, and died after a short illness. The happiest home in all France speedily became the most tragic and miserable. A change came over her father. The injury to his head received years before on the battlefield, suddenly became rekindled by the shock and grief at his wife's death, and from being an ideal husband he grew morbid, avaricious, selfish, and dead to all affection. He seemed at times to have forgotten the very existence of his daughter. Renée bore up as long as she could, but at length Dr. Villebois, who for years had been the family physician, insisted on taking her to his home as she seemed to be rapidly pining away. It was here that she met Delapine for the first time. The awe, akin to worship, which a clever, high-spirited young girl sometimes perceives for a man possessing talent of a remarkable order—a feeling by the way which is entirely independent of age—soon changed into one of deep and lasting love, and although she succeeded in concealing it from him and all the world, her womanly instinct soon told her that Delapine had the same feeling for her, and secretly worshipped the very ground she trod on.
Had they lived in the Middle Ages and had she been condemned to die at the stake, Delapine would no more have hesitated to take her place at the burning pile, than he would have thought twice about giving all the money he had in his pocket to a poor student to purchase his class-books.
Delapine possessed that extraordinary magnetic power which attracts certain people with a force that defies all reason to explain. Shakespeare expounds it in immortal language in Romeo and Juliet. Goethe observed it and gave it a name "Wahlverwandschaft," or elective affinity. We see it turning up in the most unexpected places; in the palace, the cottage, the prison, nay even on the scaffold. Myth and lore teem with it. History is ennobled by it. It is the same spirit which knit the souls of David and Jonathan, Damon and Pythias, Dante and Beatrice, Hermann and Dorothea, Catarina and Camoens. This intense affection is the exact opposite of that passion which is popularly called love. The former has nothing to do with sex, the latter is merely a sexual impulse. The former is the most unselfish thing in the world, the latter is entirely selfish. The former is purely spiritual, the latter of the earth, earthy.
True love remains when everything else has perished, the latter dies, or has wings and flies away.
"Tout ce que touche l'amour est sauvé de la mort."[6]
It was the supreme development of this spiritual power which we call love in its purest and highest sense, which led St. Paul to express himself in that exquisite ode to charity, in the First Epistle to the Corinthians. It is the fruit of this spirit which has produced the martyrs, the heroes, and the golden deeds of this and every age.