Oscar had before him the perspective of a day of happiness; he was to see the gay world at last!  Let us admit that a clerk deprived of enjoyments, though longing for dissipation, was likely to let his unchained senses drive the wise counsels of his mother and Godeschal completely out of his mind.  To the shame of youth let it be added that good advice is never lacking to it.  In the matter of Georges, Oscar himself had a feeling of aversion for him; he felt humiliated before a witness of that scene in the salon at Presles when Moreau had flung him at the count’s feet.  The moral senses have their laws, which are implacable, and we are always punished for disregarding them.  There is one in particular, which the animals themselves obey without discussion, and invariably; it is that which tells us to avoid those who have once injured us, with or without intention, voluntarily or involuntarily.  The creature from whom we receive either damage or annoyance will always be displeasing to us.  Whatever may be his rank or the degree of affection in which he stands to us, it is best to break away from him; for our evil genius has sent him to us.  Though the Christian sentiment is opposed to it, obedience to this terrible law is essentially social and conservative.  The daughter of James II., who seated herself upon her father’s throne, must have caused him many a wound before that usurpation.  Judas had certainly given some murderous blow to Jesus before he betrayed him.  We have within us an inward power of sight, an eye of the soul which foresees catastrophes; and the repugnance that comes over us against the fateful being is the result of that foresight.  Though religion orders us to conquer it, distrust remains, and its voice is forever heard.  Would Oscar, at twenty years of age, have the wisdom to listen to it?

Alas! when, at half-past two o’clock, Oscar entered the salon of the Rocher de Cancale,—­where were three invited persons besides the clerks, to wit:  an old captain of dragoons, named Giroudeau; Finot, a journalist who might procure an engagement for Florentine at the Opera, and du Bruel, an author, the friend of Tullia, one of Mariette’s rivals,—­the second clerk felt his secret hostility vanish at the first handshaking, the first dashes of conversation as they sat around a table luxuriously served.  Georges, moreover, made himself charming to Oscar.

“You’ve taken to private diplomacy,” he said; “for what difference is there between a lawyer and an ambassador? only that between a nation and an individual.  Ambassadors are the attorneys of Peoples.  If I can ever be useful to you, let me know.”

“Well,” said Oscar, “I’ll admit to you now that you once did me a very great harm.”

“Pooh!” said Georges, after listening to the explanation for which he asked; “it was Monsieur de Serizy who behaved badly.  His wife!  I wouldn’t have her at any price; neither would I like to be in the count’s red skin, minister of State and peer of France as he is.  He has a small mind, and I don’t care a fig for him now.”