"A purpose in life, however," said Lefevre, "gives an extraordinary zest to all enjoyment."
"To live," said Julius, "is surely the purpose of life. Any smaller, any more obvious purpose, will spoil life, just as it spoils Art."
"I believe, my boy, you are wrong in both," said Lefevre. "Art without a purpose goes off into all sorts of madness and extravagance, and so does life."
"You really think so?" said Julius, his attention fixed for an instant, and looking as if he had set up the point and regarded it at a distance. "Yes; perhaps it does." But the next moment his attention seemed given to the cat; he fondled it, and talked to it soothingly.
"I am sure of it," said Lefevre. "Just listen to me, Julius. You have wonderful intelligence and penetration in everything. You are fond of science; science needs men like you more than the dull plodders that usually take to it. When you were in Charbon's class you were his favourite and his best pupil,—don't I remember?—and if you liked you could be the greatest physician of the age."
"It is treason to yourself to say such a thing."
"Your fame would soon eclipse mine."
"Fame! fame!" exclaimed Julius, for an instant showing irritation. "I would not give a penny-piece for fame if all the magicians of the East came crying it down the streets! Why should I seek fame? What good would it do me if I had it?"
"Well, well," said Lefevre; "let fame alone: you might be as unknown as you like, and do a world of good in practice among the poor."
Julius looked at him, and set the cat down.