ove was made to the room above, where Lapierre--without a
stitch of clothing--stood directing the operations.

"What are you doing, Monsieur Lapierre?" screeched Madame Legendre.

"I am taking a bath, madame; it is very warm. You gave me one against my
will the night before last; and lest I should be accused of selfishness,
I am letting my neighbours partake of the pleasure."

That is how Madame Legendre was compelled to repair the roof of "La
Childebert."

Such was the company amidst which I was introduced by the son of my old
tutor. Many years have passed since then, during which I have been
thrown into the society of the great and powerful ones of this world,
rather through the force of circumstances than owing to my own merits,
but I have looked in vain for the honest friendships, the disinterested
actions, the genuine enthusiasm for their art, underlying their devilry,
of which these young men were capable. The bourgeois vices, in the guise
of civic and domestic virtues, entered the souls of Frenchmen early in
the reign of Louis-Philippe, and have been gnawing since, with
ever-increasing force, like a cancer, at everything that was noble and
worthy of admiration in a nation. But those vices never found their way
to the hearts of the inmates of "La Childebert" while they were there,
and rarely in after-life. Many attained world-wide reputations; few
gathered riches, even when they were as frugal as the best among
them--Eugene Delacroix.

To have known these young men was absolutely a liberal education. To the
Podsnap and Philistine of no matter what nationality, it seems a sad
thing to have no thought for to-morrow. And these youngsters had not
even a thought for the day. Their thoughts were for the future, when the
world mayhap would ring with their names; but their physical or mental
hearing never strained for the ring of money. They were improvident
creatures, to be sure; but how much more lovable than the young painters
of the present period, whose ideal is a big balance at their bankers;
who would rather have their names inscribed on the registers of the
public debt than in the golden book of art; whose dreamt-of Eden is a
bijou villa in the Parc Monceaux or in the Avenue Villiers; whose
providence is the _richard_, the parvenu, the wealthy upstart, whose
features they perpetuate, regardless of the perpetuation of their own
budding fame!

When I began to jot down these notes, I made up my mind to eschew