In our life together it was given to me to know him as he had hoped I might, and to penetrate each day further into his thought. He was as much and much more than all I had dreamed at the time of our union. My admiration of his unusual qualities grew continually; he lived on a plane so rare and so elevated that he sometimes seemed to me a being unique in his freedom from all vanity and from the littlenesses that one discovers in oneself and in others, and which one judges with indulgence although aspiring to a more perfect ideal. In this lay, without doubt, the secret of that infinite charm of his to which one could not long rest insensible. His thoughtful expression and the directness of his look were strongly attractive and this attraction was increased by his kindliness and gentleness of character. He sometimes said that he never felt combative, and this was entirely true. One could not enter into a dispute with him because he could not become angry. "Getting angry is not one of my strong points," he would say, smiling. If he had few friends, he had no enemies; for he could not injure anyone, even by inadvertence. But at the same time no one could force him to deviate from his line of action, something which led his father to nickname him the "gentle stubborn one." When he expressed his opinion he did so frankly, for he was convinced that diplomatic methods are puerile, and that directness is at once easiest and best. Because of this practice, he acquired a certain reputation for naïveté; in reality he was acting on a well-considered decision, rather than by instinct. It was perhaps because he was able to judge himself and to retire within himself, that he was so capable of clearly appreciating the springs of action, the intention, and the thoughts of others. And if he sometimes neglected details, he was rarely deceived in the essentials. Usually he kept his sure judgments to himself; but once he had made up his mind he sometimes expressed them without reticence, in the assurance that he was doing something useful. In his scientific relations he showed no sharpness, and did not permit himself to be influenced by considerations of personal credit or by personal sentiments. Every beautiful success gave him pleasure, even if achieved in a domain where he felt himself to have priority. He said: "What does it matter if I have not published such and such investigations, if another has published them?" For he held that in science we should be interested in things and not in persons. He was so genuinely against every form of emulation that he opposed even the competitions and gradings of the lycées, as well as all forms of honorary distinction. He never failed to give counsel and encouragement to any of those who showed an aptitude for science, and certain among them still remain profoundly grateful to him.