Amedee was attracted, at first sight, by Maurice’s handsome, blond, curly head, his air of frankness and superiority, and the elegant jackets that he wore with the easy, graceful manners of a gentleman.  Twice a day, when they left the college, they walked together through the Luxembourg Gardens, confiding to each other their dreams and hopes, lingering in the walks, where Maurice already gazed at the grisettes in an impudent fashion, talking with the charming abandon of their age, the sincere age when one thinks aloud.

Maurice told his new friend that he was the son of an officer killed before Sebastopol, that his mother had never married again, but adored him and indulged him in all his whims.  He was patiently waiting for his school-days to end, to live independently in the Latin Quarter, to study law, without being hurried, since his mother wished him to do so, and he did not wish to displease her.  But he wished also to amuse himself with painting, at least as an amateur; for he was passionately fond of it.  All this was said by the handsome, aristocratic young man with a happy smile, which expanded his sensual lips and nostrils; and Amedee admired him without one envious thought; feeling, with the generous warmth of youth, an entire confidence in the future and the mere joy of living.  In his turn he made a confidant of Maurice, but not of everything.  The poor boy 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 much as youth can suffer.  At least, honest-hearted fellow that he was, he avowed his humble origin without shame, boasted of his humble friends the Gerards, praised Louise’s goodness, and spoke enthusiastically of little Maria, who was just sixteen and so pretty.

“You will take me to see them some time, will you not?” said Maurice, who listened to his friend with his natural good grace.  “But first of all, you must come to dinner some day with me, and I will present you to my mother.  Next Sunday, for instance.  Is it agreeable?”

Amedee would have liked to refuse, for he suddenly recalled—­oh! the torture and suffering of poor young men! that his Sunday coat was almost as seedy as his everyday one, that his best pair of shoes were run-over at the heels, and that the collars and cuffs on his six white shirts were ragged on the edges from too frequent washings.  Then, to go to dinner in the city, what an ordeal!  What must he do to be presented in a drawing-room?  The very thought of it made him shiver.  But Maurice invited him so cordially that he was irresistible, and Amedee accepted.