part; they represented the Byronic element in the somewhat artificial

poetry of his existence; but to the boy, though he was dimly aware of

their theatricality, they represented more. The Doctor made perhaps too

little, the boy possibly too much, of the reality and gravity of these

temptations.

One day a great light shone for Jean-Marie. 'Could not riches be used

well?' he asked.

'In theory, yes,' replied the Doctor. 'But it is found in experience

that no one does so. All the world imagine they will be exceptional when

they grow wealthy; but possession is debasing, new desires spring up; and

the silly taste for ostentation eats out the heart of pleasure.'

'Then you might be better if you had less,' said the boy.

'Certainly not,' replied the Doctor; but his voice quavered as he spoke.

'Why?' demanded pitiless innocence.

Doctor Desprez saw all the colours of the rainbow in a moment; the stable

universe appeared to be about capsizing with him. 'Because,' said

he--affecting deliberation after an obvious pause--'because I have formed

my life for my present income. It is not good for men of my years to be

violently dissevered from their habits.'

That was a sharp brush. The Doctor breathed hard, and fell into

taciturnity for the afternoon. As for the boy, he was delighted with the

resolution of his doubts; even wondered that he had not foreseen the

obvious and conclusive answer. His faith in the Doctor was a stout piece

of goods. Desprez was inclined to be a sheet in the wind's eye after

dinner, especially after Rhone wine, his favourite weakness. He would

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