dire distress.  That coat was nut-brown in color, threadbare at the seams, carefully brushed, though the collar was greasy from pomade or powder, and had the white metal buttons now copper-colored.  The whole was so shabby that I tried not to look at it.  The hat—­an opera hat of a kind we then carried under the arm, and not on the head—­had seen many governments.  Nevertheless, my poor friend must have spent a few sous at the barber’s, for he was neatly shaved; and his hair, gathered behind his head with a comb and powdered carefully, smelt of pomade.  I saw two chains hanging down on his breeches,—­two rusty steel chains,—­but no appearance of a watch in his pocket.  I tell you all these details, as they come to me,” said Monsieur Alain; “I seldom think of this matter now; but when I do, all the particulars come vividly before me.”

He paused a moment and then resumed:—­

“It was winter, and Mongenod evidently had no cloak; for I noticed that several lumps of snow, which must have dropped from the roofs as he walked along, were sticking to the collar of his coat.  When he took off his rabbit-skin gloves, and I saw his right hand, I noticed the signs of labor, and toilsome labor, too.  Now his father, the advocate of the Grand Council, had left him some property,—­about five or six thousand francs a year.  I saw at once that he had come to me to borrow money.  I had, in a secret hiding-place, two hundred louis d’or,—­an enormous hoard at that time; for they were worth I couldn’t now tell you how many hundred thousand francs in assignats.  Mongenod and I had studied at the same collage,—­that of Grassins,—­and we had met again in the same law-office,—­that of Bordin,—­a truly honest man.  When you have spent your boyhood and played your youthful pranks with the same comrade, the sympathy between you and him has something sacred about it; his voice, his glance, stir certain chords in your heart which only vibrate under the memories that he brings back.  Even if you have had cause of complaint against such a comrade, the rights of the friendship between you can never be effaced.  But there had never been the slightest jar between us two.  At the death of his father, in 1787, Mongenod was left richer than I. Though I had never borrowed money from him, I owed him pleasures which my father’s economy denied me.  Without my generous comrade I should never had seen the first representation of the ‘Marriage of Figaro.’  Mongenod was what was called in those days a charming cavalier; he was very gallant.  Sometimes I blamed him for his facile way of making intimacies and his too great amiability.  His purse opened freely; he lived in a free-handed way; he would serve a man as second having only seen him twice.  Good God! how you send me back to the days and the ways of my youth!” said the worthy man, with his cheery smile.

“Are you sorry?” said Godefroid.

“Oh, no! and you can judge by the minuteness with which I am telling you all this how great a place this event has held in my life.