When I was five and twenty years of age.

I was earning two thousand francs a year, as a clerk at the Monte de Piete.

One morning my father entered my lodging, and abruptly announced to me that he was ruined, and without food or shelter.

He appeared in despair, and talked of killing himself.
I loved my father.

Naturally, I strove to reassure him; I boasted of my situation, and explained to him at some length, that, while I earned the means for living, he should want for nothing; and, to commence, I insisted that henceforth we should live together.