A young man! that is to say, a being who possesses a treasure without
knowing its value, like a Central African negro who picks up one of
M. Rothschild's cheque-books; a young man ignorant of his beauty or
charms, who frets because the light down upon his chin has not turned
into hideous bristles, a young man who awakes every morning full of hope,
and artlessly asks himself what fortunate thing will happen to him
to-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--he
no longer went to M. Batifol's boarding-school, but was completing his
studies at the Lycee Henri IV--named Maurice Roger. They soon formed an
affectionate intimacy, one of those eighteen-year-old friendships which
are perhaps the sweetest and most substantial in the world.

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.