les. He opened a box, full to bursting, of large
photographs, and passed them to his friend with exclamations of
retrospective admiration.

"Look! the Coliseum! the ruins of Paestum--and this antique from the
Vatican! Is it not beautiful?"

While looking at the pictures he recalled the things that he had seen and
the impressions he had experienced. There was a band of collegians in
little capes and short trousers taking their walk; they wore buckled
shoes, like the abbes of olden times, and nothing could be more droll
than to see these childish priests play leapfrog. There, upon the Riva
dei Schiavoni, he had followed a Venetian. "Shabbily dressed, and fancy,
my friend, bare-headed, in a yellow shawl with ragged green fringe! No, I
do not know whether she was pretty, but she possessed in her person all
the attractions of Giorgione's goddesses and Titian's courtesans
combined!"

Maurice is still the same wicked fellow. But, bah! it suits him; he even
boasts of it with such a joyous ardor and such a youthful dash, that it
is only one charm the more in him. The clock struck seven, and they went
to dine. They started off through the Latin Quarter. Maurice gave his arm
to Amedee and told him of his adventures on the other side of the Alps.
Maurice, once started on this subject, could not stop, and while the
dinner was being served the traveller continued to describe his
escapades. This kind of conversation was dangerous for Amedee; for it
must not be forgotten that for some time the young poet's innocence had
weighed upon him, and this evening he had some pieces of gold in his
pocket that rang a chime of pleasure. While Maurice, with his elbow upon
the table, told him his tales of love, Amedee gazed out upon the sidewalk
at the women who passed by in fresh toilettes, in the gaslight which
illuminated the green foliage, giving a little nod of the head to those
whom they knew. There was voluptuousness in the very air, and it was
Amedee who arose from the table and recalled to Maurice that it was
Thursday, and that there was a fete that night at Bullier's; and he also
was the one to add, with a deliberate air:

"Shall we take a turn there?"

"Willingly," replied his gay friend. "Ah, ha! we are then beginning to
enjoy ourselves a little, Monsieur Violette! Go to Bullier's? so be it. I
am not sorry to assure myself whether or not I still love the Parisians."

They started off, smoking their cigarettes. Upon the highway, goi