“There are other professions besides the law, Monsieur Mouillard.  I have studied Fabien.  His temperament is somewhat wayward.  With special training he might have become an artist.  Lacking that early moulding into shape, he never will be anything more than a dreamer.”

“I should not have expressed it so well, but I have often thought the same.”

“With a temperament like your nephew’s,” continued M. Charnot, “the best he can do is to enter upon a career in which the ideal has some part; not a predominant, but a sufficient part, something between prose and poetry.”

“Let him be a notary, then.”

“No, that’s wholly prose; he shall be a librarian.”

“A librarian?”

“Yes, Monsieur Mouillard; there are a few little libraries in Paris, which are as quiet as groves, and in which places are to be got that are as snug as nests.  I have some influence in official circles, and that can do no harm, you know.”

“Quite so.”

“We will put our Fabien into one of those nests, where he will be protected against idleness by the little he will do, and against revolutions by the little he will be.  It’s a charming profession; the very smell of books is improving; merely by breathing it you live an intellectual life.”

“An intellectual life!” exclaimed my uncle with enthusiasm.  “Yes, an intellectual life!”

“And cataloguing books, Monsieur Mouillard, looking through them, preserving them as far as possible from worms and readers.  Don’t you think that’s an enviable lot?”

“Yes, more so than mine has been, or my successor’s will be.”

“By the way, uncle, you haven’t told us who your successor is to be.”

“Haven’t I, really?  Why, you know him; it’s your friend Larive.”

“Oh!  That explains a great deal.”

“He is a young man who takes life seriously.”

“Very seriously, uncle.  Isn’t he about to be married?”

“Why, yes; to a rich wife.”

“To whom?”

“My dear boy, he is picking up all your leavings; he is going to marry Mademoiselle Lorinet.”

“He was always enterprising!  But, uncle, it wasn’t with him you were engaged yesterday evening?”

“Why not, pray?”

“You told Madeleine to admit a gentleman with a decoration.”

“He has one.”

“Good heavens!  What is it?”

“The Nicham Iftikar, if it please you.”
   [A Tunisian order, which can be obtained for a very moderate sum.]

“It doesn’t displease me, uncle, and surprises me still less.  Larive will die with his breast more thickly plastered with decorations than an Odd Fellow’s; he will be a member of all the learned societies in the department, respected and respectable, the more thoroughly provincial for having been outrageously Parisian.  Mothers will confide their anxieties to him, and fathers their interests; but when his old acquaintances pass this way they will take the liberty of smiling in his face.”