uns; there's
nothing but selfishness under his jesting exterior. I have no belief
in him. Yet he is an old school friend; the only one of my twenty-eight
classmates whose acquaintance I have kept up. Four are dead,
twenty-three others are scattered about in obscure country places; lost
for want of news, as they say at the private inquiry offices. Larive
makes up the twenty-eight. I used to admire him, when we were low in the
school, because of his long trousers, his lofty contempt of discipline,
and his precocious intimacy with tobacco. I preferred him to the good,
well-behaved boys. Whenever we had leave out I used to buy gum-arabic at
the druggist's in La Chatre, and break it up with a small hammer at the
far end of my room, away from prying eyes. I used there to distribute
it into three bags ticketed respectively: "large pieces," "middle-sized
pieces," "small pieces." When I returned to school with the three bags
in my pocket, I would draw out one or the other to offer them to my
friends, according to the importance of the occasion, or the degrees of
friendship. Larive always had the big bits, and plenty of them. Yet
he was none the more grateful to me, and even did not mind chaffing me
about these petty attentions by which he was the gainer. He used to make
fun of everything, and I used to look up to him. He still makes fun
of everything; but for me the age of gumarabic is past and my faith in
Larive is gone.

If he believes that he will disparage this charming girl in my eyes by
telling me that she is a bad dancer, he is wrong. Of great importance it
is to have a wife who dances well! She does not dance in her own house,
nor with her husband from the wardrobe to the cradle, but at others'
houses, and with other men. Besides, a young girl who dances much has
a lot of nonsense talked to her. She may acquire a taste for Larive's
buffooneries, for a neat leg, or a sharp tongue. In that case what
welcome can she give to simple, timid affection? She will only laugh
at it. But you would not laugh, Jeanne, were I to tell you that I loved
you. No, I am quite convinced that you would not laugh. And if you loved
me, Jeanne, we should not go into society. That would just suit me. I
should protect you, yet not hide you. We should have felicity at home
instead of running after it to balls and crushes, where it is never to
be found. You could not help being aware of the fascination you exert;
but you would not squander it on a mo