Besides, she was one of those women who have no history, and who
find happiness in what others would call duty. Her life could be
summed up in a single sentence: she had loved; she had mourned.
The daughter of a petty clerk in one of the government
departments, and merely dowered with a modest portion of three
thousand francs, she had married a young man as poor as herself,
but intelligent and industrious, whom she loved, and who adored
her. This young man on marrying had sworn that he would make a
fortune; not that he cared for money for himself, but he wished to
provide his idol with every luxury. His love, enhancing his
energy, no doubt hastened his success. Attached as a chemist to a
large manufacturing establishment, his services soon became so
invaluable to his employers that they gave him a considerable
interest in the business. His name even obtained an honorable
place among modern inventors; and we are indebted to him for the
discovery of one of those brilliant colors that are extracted from
common coal. At the end of ten years he had become a man of
means. He loved his wife as fondly as on the day of their
marriage, and he had a son--Pascal.
Unfortunate fellow! One day, in the full sunshine of happiness and
success, while he was engaged in a series of experiments for the
purpose of obtaining a durable, and at the same time perfectly
harmless, green, the chemicals exploded, smashing the mortar which
he held, and wounding him horribly about the head and chest.
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