This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By FRANCOIS COPPEE
Meanwhile the allegorical old fellow with the large wings and whitebeard, Time, had emptied his hour-glass many times; or, to speak plainer,the postman, with a few flakes of snow upon his blue cloth coat, presentshimself three or four times a day at his customers' dwelling to offer inreturn for a trifling sum of money a calendar containing necessaryinformation, such as the ecclesiastical computation, or the differencebetween the Gregorian and the Arabic Hegira; and Amedee Violette hadgradually become a young man.
A young man! that is to say, a being who possesses a treasure withoutknowing its value, like a Central African negro who picks up one ofM. Rothschild's cheque-books; a young man ignorant of his beauty orcharms, who frets because the light down upon his chin has not turnedinto hideous bristles, a young man who awakes every morning full of hope,and artlessly asks himself what fortunate thing will happen to himto-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—heno longer went to M. Batifol's boarding-school, but was completing hisstudies at the Lycee Henri IV—named Maurice Roger. They soon formed anaffectionate intimacy, one of those eighteen-year-old friendships whichare perhaps the sweetest and most substantial in the world.
Amedee was attracted, at first sight, by Maurice's handsome, blond, curlyhead, his air of frankness and superiority, and the elegant jackets thathe wore with the easy, graceful manners of a gentleman. Twice a day,when they left the college, they walked together through the LuxembourgGardens, confiding to each other their dreams and hopes, lingering in thewalks, where Maurice already gazed at the grisettes in an impudentfashion, talking with the charming abandon of their age, the sincere agewhen one thinks aloud.
Maurice told his new friend that he was the son of an officer killedbefore Sebastopol, that his mother had never married again, but adoredhim and indulged him in all his whims. He was patiently waiting for hisschool-days to end, to live independently in the Latin Quarter, to studylaw, without being hurried, since his mother wished him to do so, and hedid not wish to displease her. But he wished also to amuse himself withpainting, at least as an amateur; for he was passionately fond of it.All this was said by the handsome, aristocratic young man with a happysmile, which expanded his sensual lips and nostrils; and Amedee admiredhim without one envious thought; feeling, with the generous warmth ofyouth, an entire confidence in the future and the mere joy of living. Inhis turn he made a confidant of Maurice, but not of everything. The poorboy 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 muchas youth can suffer. At least, honest-hearted fellow that he was, heavowed his humble origin without shame, boasted of his humble friends theGerards, praised Louise's goodness, and spoke enthusiastically of littleMaria, who was just sixteen and so pretty.
"You will take me to see them some time, will you not?" said Maurice,who listened