XII

Desplein at these words clutched Bianchon's arm tightly. "He gave

me the money for my examination fees! That man, my friend,

understood that I had a mission, that the needs of my intellect

were greater than his. He looked after me, he called me his boy,

he lent me money to buy books, he would come in softly sometimes

to watch me at work, and took a mother's care in seeing that I

had wholesome and abundant food, instead of the bad and

insufficient nourishment I had been condemned to. Bourgeat, a man

of about forty, had a homely, mediaeval type of face, a prominent

forehead, a head that a painter might have chosen as a model for

that of Lycurgus. The poor man's heart was big with affections

seeking an object; he had never been loved but by a poodle that

had died some time since, of which he would talk to me, asking

whether I thought the Church would allow masses to be said for

the repose of its soul. His dog, said he, had been a good

Christian, who for twelve years had accompanied him to church,

never barking, listening to the organ without opening his mouth,

and crouching beside him in a way that made it seem as though he

were praying too.

"This man centered all his affections in me; he looked upon me as

a forlorn and suffering creature, and he became, to me, the most

thoughtful mother, the most considerate benefactor, the ideal of

the virtue which rejoices in its own work. When I met him in the

street, he would throw me a glance of intelligence full of

unutterable dignity; he would affect to walk as though he carried

no weight, and seemed happy in seeing me in good health and well

dressed. It was, in fact, the devoted affection of the lower

classes, the love of a girl of the people transferred to a

loftier level. Bourgeat did all my errands, woke me at night at

any fixed hour, trimmed my lamp, cleaned our landing; as good as

a servant as he was as a father, and as clean as an English girl.

He did all the housework. Like Philopoemen, he sawed our wood,

and gave to all he did the grace of simplicity while preserving

his dignity, for he seemed to understand that the end ennobles

every act.

"When I left this good fellow, to be house surgeon at the Hotel-

Dieu, I felt an indescribable, dull pain, knowing that he could

no longer live with me; but he comforted himself with the

prospect of saving up money enough for me to take my degree, and

he made me promise to go to see him whenever I had a day out:

Bourgeat was proud of me. He loved me for my own sake, and for

his own. If you look up my thesis, you will see that I dedicated

it to him.