“You remember, when you left the university of Paris, that I was then preparing to compete in the concours for the professorship of astronomy.”
“Which I always believed you would have, undoubtedly won,” interrupted the officer.
“Do not interrupt me. Within a short time after your departure, I received a letter from the faithful servant, who always attended her, acquainting me with my mother’s death. You, who have known the more than ordinary fondness that my mother and I so strongly entertained for each other, can easily understand the overwhelming effect which such an announcement had upon me.”
“I know, Emmanuel—pass over that quickly,” said the young officer.
“Even my philosophy was not strong enough to bear up against it, and I fell into a fever, from the effects of which I did not rally for a considerable period.
“Well, with my mother’s death, my means of support ceased; for she seems to have carefully concealed the fact from me, that all her little fortune had been devoted to my education, and had been expended for the purpose of keeping me, as much as possible, on a level with the station which her ancestors had occupied. I was, consequently rendered incapable of continuing my preparations for the concours, and it became absolutely necessary for me to endeavour to gain my livelihood by my own exertions.
“When the whole of my lifetime, up to that period, had been passed in schools and colleges, you may easily imagine that I was not much adapted to friction against the world, and to fight in the scrambling battle, for bread.
“The only means I possessed was my pen,—precarious means! The only method of procuring food was by writing on those subjects, with which I had, more or less, filled my mind. Paris was over-crowded with individuals placed in a similar position to mine, who, however, possessed the superior advantage of being better able to thrust themselves forward; a thing which I sympathized too little with the world to be able to do. Besides, it was very problematical, whether success in Paris would bring me remuneration that would be sufficient to maintain me in the manner in which I had been brought up;—for you must know that literary men are badly paid in France. I felt, also, a certain disgust in remaining among those by whom I was known, when I fell into a condition which, at best, would be but precarious. For these reasons, I resolved to visit the British capital, where remuneration was reputed to be greater and more secure.
“I left Paris, after taking leave of but few of my friends, and went to London. When I arrived there, I found there were many subjects on which but little had been written; for the genius of the English people calls them a different way from the unprofitable consideration of abstruse subjects. I wrote about these things. I took my papers to the publications of the day. They did not refuse them:—‘They would publish them,’ they said, ‘when there was room.’ That, I found out by experience, was but an excuse. They were not inclined absolutely to refuse the articles, so they had recourse to that shuffling subterfuge, for they had their own friends to serve. I waited long—there still was no room; sometimes, at great intervals, a paper was published, but so sadly mutilated that it became almost absurd.
“In the mean time, the small amount of money which I possessed became more and more diminished; still I hoped. Yes: I had that delusive, cheating, empty solace of the afflicted—hope. Hope, which mankind has complaisantly numbered among its cardinal virtues, because it holds out to each the lighted wisp that leads and leads him on until he finally stumbles into the grave that closes up his existence. All my valuables were disposed of, one after another, and I was at last left without a brass penny—without property, save my telescope. With that I would not—I could not part. I should have more easily yielded up my heart than dispossess myself of my old and only companion.