I had just finished my school-days, and, having carefully thought over the different professions which seemed to accord with my tastes, I felt—and it may be imagined how bitterly—that not one of them was within my means. To embrace any of them would have required a larger sum than I had the least hope of. Under such unfavorable circumstances, I became a tutor in a Lycée.
God preserve my very enemies, if I have any, from so trying an occupation! At the end of three months, worn out with my labors, and overwhelmed with humiliations and sadness, I had fallen into such a state of discouragement, not to say of despair, that I regarded myself as the most unfortunate of men.
To those who wish to be distinguished from the crowd, there is something peculiarly attractive in looking upon themselves as more unhappy than common mortals. I gave myself up to this notion, at first through vanity. But this kind of superiority is by no means cheering, I assure you, so I soon sought consolation. Thank God, I had not far to go. My old friend, Mme. Agnes, was at hand. I sought refuge with her. I speak as if she were advanced in years, but it must be acknowledged she would have seemed a mere child to Methuselah. She was thirty-six years of age; but I was only eighteen, and thought her old.
Mme. Agnes lived on a broad and pleasant quay that gently sloped towards a noble river. Not fifty steps from the house rolled the swift current of the Loire. Beyond was an extensive plain from which rose innumerable spires.
When I arrived, I found my friend in her usual seat near the window. She was in a large arm-chair, with a table before her, on which were all the materials necessary for a painter of miniatures. Mme. Agnes was renowned in Philopolis as an artist. Her uncommon talent enabled her to support her mother and young sister in a comfortable manner. Alas! poor lady, she had been a paralytic for ten years.
According to her custom, she laid aside her work when I entered, and welcomed me with a smile. But this expression of pleasure gave place to one of motherly anxiety when she observed the sad face I wore.
“What is the matter, my poor child?” said she. “You have grown frightfully thin.”
“I cannot say I am ill,” I replied, “but I am down-hearted, and have so much reason to be, that things cannot continue long in this way: I should die.”
Thus saying, I leaned my head against Mme. Agnes’ chair, like a great child as I was, and cried heartily. I had so long restrained my tears!...