took leave of Uncle Isidore.

"We will reflect over it, Monsieur Gaufre, and will come to see you
again."

But Berenice had hardly shut the door upon them when M. Violette said to
his son:

"Nothing is to be expected of that old egotist. Tomorrow we will go to
see the chief of my department, I have spoken of you to him, at all
events."

He was a good sort of fellow, this M. Courtet, who was head clerk, though
too conceited and starched up, certainly. His red rosette, as large as a
fifty-cent piece, made one's eyes blink, and he certainly was very
imprudent to stand so long backed up to the fireplace with limbs spread
apart, for it seemed that he must surely burn the seat of his trousers.
But no matter, he has stomach enough. He has noticed M. Violette's
pitiful decline--"a poor devil who never will live to be promoted."
Having it in his power to distribute positions, M. Courtet had reserved a
position for Amedee. In eight days the young man would be nominated an
auxiliary employe at fifteen hundred francs a year. It is promised and
done.

Ugh! the sickening heat from the stove! the disgusting odor of musty
papers! However, Amedee had nothing to complain of; they might have given
him figures to balance for five hours at a time. He owed it to M.
Courtet's kindness, that he was put at once into the correspondence room.
He studied the formulas, and soon became skilful in official politeness.
He now knew the delicate shades which exist between "yours respectfully"
and "most respectfully yours;" and he measured the abyss which separates
an "agreeable" and "homage."

To sum it all up, Amedee was bored, but he was not unhappy; for he had
time to dream.

He went the longest way to the office in the morning, while seeking to
make "amour" rhyme with "jour" without producing an insipid thing; or
else he thought of the third act of his drama after the style of 1830,
and the grand love scene which should take place at the foot of the
Montfaucon gallows. In the evening he went to the Gerards, and they
seated themselves around--the lamp which stood on the dining-room table,
the father reading his journal, the women sewing. He chatted with Maria,
who answered him the greater part of the time without raising her eyes,
because she suspected, the coquette! that he admired her beautiful,
drooping lids.

Amedee composed his first sonnets in her honor, and he adored her, of
course, but he was also in love with the Lantz young ladi