My uncle buried his face in his hands. “Last night, my poor child, only last night!” “I thought so.” “I was weak I listened to the prompting of anger; I have compromised your future. Fabien, forgive me in your turn.” He rose from the table, and came and put a trembling hand on my shoulder. “No, uncle, you’ve not compromised anything, and I’ve nothing to forgive you.” “You wouldn’t take the practice if I could still offer it to you?” “No, uncle.” “Upon your word?” “Upon my word!” M. Mouillard drew himself up, beaming: “Ah! Thank you for that speech, Fabien; you have relieved me of a great weight.” With one corner of his napkin he wiped away two tears, which, having arisen in time of war, continued to flow in time of peace. “If Mademoiselle Jeanne, in addition to all her other perfections, brings you fortune, Fabien, if your future is assured--” “My dear Monsieur Mouillard,” broke in the Academician with ill-concealed satisfaction. “My colleagues call me rich. They slander me. Works on numismatics do not make a man rich. Monsieur Fabien, who made some investigations into the subject, can prove it to you. No; I possess no more than an honorable competence, which does not give me everything, but lets me lack nothing.” “Aurea mediocritas,” exclaimed my uncle, delighted with his quotation. “Oh, that Horace! What a fellow he was!” “He was indeed. Well, as I was saying, our daily bread is assured; but that’s no reason why my son-in-law should vegetate in idleness which I do not consider my due, even at my age.” “Quite right.” “So he must work.” “But what is he to work at?” “There are other professions besides the law, Monsieur Mouillard. I have studied Fabien. His temperament is somewhat wayward. With special training he might have become an artist. Lacking that early moulding into shape, he never will be anything more than a dreamer.” “I should not have expressed it so well, but I have often thought the same.” “With a temperament like your nephew’s,” continued M. Charnot, “the best he can do is to enter upon a career in which the ideal has some part; not a predominant, but a sufficient part, something between prose and poetry.” “Let him be a notary, then.” “No, that’s wholly prose; he shall be a librarian.” “A librarian?” “Yes, Monsieur Mouillard; there are a few little libraries in Paris, which are as quiet as groves, and in which places are to be got that are as snug as nests. I have some influence in official circles, and that can do no harm, you know.” “Quite so.” “We will put our Fabien into one of those nests, where he will be protected against idleness by the little he will do, and against revolutions by the little he will be. It’s a charming profession; the very smell of books is improving; merely by breathing it you live an intellectual life.” “An intellectual life!” exclaimed my uncle with enthusiasm. “Yes, an intellectual life!”