He met her, furious at the influence she exercised over him, and against which he had struggled since their last meeting; he left her, ravished at feeling how profoundly he loved her.
To a man whose life had been ruled by reason and logic until this moment, these contradictions were exasperating; and he only excused himself for submitting to them by saying that they could in no way modify the line of conduct that he had traced out for himself, nor make him deviate from the road that he followed.
Rich, or even with a small fortune, he might--when he was with her and in her power--let himself be carried away; but when he was dying of hunger he was not going to commit the folly of taking a wife.

What would he have to give her?
Misery, nothing but misery; and shame, in default of any other reason, would forever prevent him from offering himself to her.
She was the daughter of an artist who, after years of struggle, died at the moment when fortune was beginning to smile upon him.

Ten years more of work, and he would have left his family, if not rich, at least in comfortable circumstances.

In reality, he left nothing but ruin.
The hotel he built was sold, and, after the debts were paid, nothing remained but some furniture.

His widow, son, and daughter must work.