Rothschild's cheque-books; a young man ignorant of his beauty or charms,
who frets because the light down upon his chin has not turned into
hideous bristles, a young man who awakes every morning full of hope, and
artlessly asks himself what fortunate thing will happen to him to-day;
who dreams, instead of living, because he is timid and poor.

It was then that Amedee made the acquaintance of one of his comrades--he
no longer went to M. Batifol's boarding-school, but was completing his
studies at the Lycee Henri IV--named Maurice Roger. They soon formed an
affectionate intimacy, one of those eighteen-year-old friendships which
are perhaps the sweetest and most substantial in the world.

Amedee was attracted, at first sight, by Maurice's handsome, blond,
curly head, his air of frankness and superiority, and the elegant
jackets that he wore with the easy, graceful manners of a gentleman.
Twice a day, when they left the college, they walked together through
the Luxembourg Gardens, confiding to each other their dreams and hopes,
lingering in the walks, where Maurice already gazed at the grisettes in
an impudent fashion, talking with the charming abandon of their age, the
sincere age when one thinks aloud.

Maurice told his new friend that he was the son of an officer killed
before Sebastopol, that his mother had never married again, but adored
him and indulged him in all his whims. He was patiently waiting for his
school-days to end, to live independently in the Latin Quarter, to study
law, without being hurried, since his mother wished him to do so, and he
did not wish to displease her. But he wished also to amuse himself with
painting, at least as an amateur; for he was passionately fond of it.
All this was said by the handsome, aristocratic young man with a happy
smile, which expanded his sensual lips and nostrils; and Amedee admired
him without one envious thought; feeling, with the generous warmth of
youth, an entire confidence in the future and the mere joy of living. In
his turn he made a confidant of Maurice, but not of everything. The
poor boy could not tell anybody that he suspected his father of a secret
vice, that he blushed over it, was ashamed of it, and suffered from it
as much as youth can suffer. At least, honest-hearted fellow that he
was, he avowed his humble origin without shame, boasted of his
humble friends the Gerards, praised Louise's goodness, and spoke
enthusiastically of little Maria, who was ju