we have said, who is doubtless no more than the loveliest desire of our soul—­then shall I behold this same thought astir in the beggar who passes my window the moment thereafter; and I shall love him the more for that I understand him the better.  And let us not think that love of this kind can be useless; for indeed, if one day we shall know the thing that has to be done, it will only be thanks to the few who love in this fashion, with an ever-deepening love.  From the conscious and infinite love must the true morality spring, nor can there be greater charity than the effort to ennoble our fellows.  But I cannot ennoble you if I have not become noble myself; I have no admiration to give you if there be naught in myself I admire.  If the deed I have done be heroic, its truest reward will be my conviction that of an equal deed you are capable too; this conviction ever will tend to become more spontaneous within me, and more unconquerable.  Every thought that quickens my heart brings quickening, too, to the love and respect that I have for mankind.  As I rise aloft, you rise with me.  But if, the better to love you, I deem it my duty to tear off the wings from my love, your love being wingless as yet; then shall I have added in vain to the plaints and the tears in the valley, but brought my own love thereby not one whit nearer the mountain.  Our love should always be lodged on the highest peak we can attain.  Let our love not spring from pity when it can be born of love; let us not forgive for charity’s sake when justice offers forgiveness; nor let us try to console there where we can respect.  Let our one never-ceasing care be to better the love that we offer our fellows.  One cup of this love that is drawn from the spring on the mountain is worth a hundred taken from the stagnant well of ordinary charity.  And if there be one whom you no longer can love because of the pity you feel, or the tears that he sheds; and if he ignore to the end that you love him because you ennobled him at the same time you ennobled yourself, it matters but little after all; for you have done what you held to be best, and the best is not always most useful.  Should we not invariably act in this life as though the God whom our heart desires with its highest desire were watching our every action?

72.  In a terrible catastrophe that took place but a short time ago,[Footnote:  The fire at the Bazar de la Charite in Paris.] destiny afforded yet another, and perhaps the most startling instance of what it pleases men to term her injustice, her blindness, or her irresponsibility.  She seemed to have singled out for especial chastisement the solitary external virtue that reason has left us—­our love for our fellow-man.  There must have been some moderately righteous men amongst the victims, and it seems almost certain that there was at least one whose virtue was wholly disinterested and sincere.  It is the presence of this one truly good man that warrants our asking, in all its simplicity, the terrible question that rises to our lips.  Had he not been there we might have tried to believe that this act of seemingly monstrous injustice was in reality composed of particles of sovereign justice.  We might have whispered to ourselves that what they termed charity, out yonder, was perhaps only the arrogant flower of permanent injustice.