Martin was half ruined by a friend of his youth, for whom he would have given his life.
One day, when he was from home, one of his outbuildings caught fire, and the flames would have communicated to his dwelling but for a man, who, at the risk of his life, succeeded in arresting them. This man was his only enemy!
Well informed for a man of his condition, and endowed with a fair share of sense, he was looked up to by his neighbors with a certain degree of deference. He studied hard in order to strengthen a reputation of which he was proud; but in so doing he was not slow to discover that he knew nothing.
His first visit to Paris was still fresh in his memory. It was in September, 1832. One morning he went to breathe the fresh air in the garden of the Tuileries, when a man of a noble and friendly mien, wearing a gray hat, commenced conversation with him.
“You are a stranger in Paris?”
“I am from Limousin,” replied Martin.
“You are a manufacturer, perhaps?”
“No: I am a farmer.”
“I am not acquainted with your section of the country, but I have heard it highly spoken of.”
“We have, indeed, a beautiful country,” replied the countryman,—“rich and picturesque, industrious and patriotic: we are in want of but one thing,—a river.”