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friends who are never anxious as to what they may get in return

for what they give, feeling sure that they will in their turn get



more than they give. Most of his friends felt for him that

deeply-seated respect which is inspired by unostentatious virtue,



and many of them dreaded his censure. But Horace made no pedantic

display of his qualities. He was neither a puritan nor a



preacher; he could swear with a grace as he gave his advice, and

was always ready for a jollification when occasion offered. A



jolly companion, not more prudish than a trooper, as frank and

outspoken--not as a sailor, for nowadays sailors are wily



diplomates--but as an honest man who has nothing in his life to

hide, he walked with his head erect, and a mind content. In



short, to put the facts into a word, Horace was the Pylades of

more than one Orestes--creditors being regarded as the nearest



modern equivalent to the Furies of the ancients.

He carried his poverty with the cheerfulness which is perhaps one



of the chief elements of courage, and, like all people who have

nothing, he made very few debts. As sober as a camel and active



as a stag, he was steadfast in his ideas and his conduct.

The happy phase of Bianchon's life began on the day when the



famous surgeon had proof of the qualities and the defects which,

these no less than those, make Doctor Horace Bianchon doubly dear



to his friends. When a leading clinical practitioner takes a

young man to his bosom, that young man has, as they say, his foot



in the stirrup. Desplein did not fail to take Bianchon as his

assistant to wealthy houses, where some complimentary fee almost



always found its way into the student's pocket, and where the

mysteries of Paris life were insensibly revealed to the young



provincial; he kept him at his side when a consultation was to be

held, and gave him occupation; sometimes he would send him to a



watering-place with a rich patient; in fact, he was making a

practice for him. The consequence was that in the course of time



the Tyrant of surgery had a devoted ally. These two men--one at

the summit of honor and of his science, enjoying an immense



fortune and an immensereputation; the other a humble Omega,

having neither fortune nor fame--became intimate friends.



The great Desplein told his house surgeon everything; the

disciple knew whether such or such a woman had sat on a chair



near the master, or on the famous couch in Desplein's surgery, on

which he slept. Bianchon knew the mysteries of that temperament,



a compound of the lion and the bull, which at last expanded and

enlarged beyond measure the great man's torso, and caused his



death by degeneration of the heart. He studied the eccentricities

of that busy life, the schemes of that sordidavarice, the hopes



of the politician who lurked behind the man of science; he was

able to foresee the mortifications that awaited the only



sentiment that lay hid in a heart that was steeled, but not of

steel.



One day Bianchon spoke to Desplein of a poor water-carrier of the

Saint-Jacques district, who had a horrible disease caused by



fatigue and want; this wretched Auvergnat had had nothing but

potatoes to eat during the dreadful winter of 1821. Desplein left



all his visits, and at the risk of killing his horse, he rushed

off, followed by Bianchon, to the poor man's dwelling, and saw,



himself, to his being removed to a sick house, founded by the

famous Dubois in the Faubourg Saint-Denis. Then he went to attend



the man, and when he had cured him he gave him the necessary sum

to buy a horse and a water-barrel. This Auvergnat distinguished



himself by an amusing action. One of his friends fell ill, and he

took him at once to Desplein, saying to his benefactor, "I could



not have borne to let him go to any one else!"

Rough customer as he was, Desplein grasped the water-carrier's






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