One of his tricks consisted of claiming his cashbox was empty, whereas it was stuffed with gold and notes. He was a wretched creature, without youth, without heart, without friends. Greatly admired by his father.

Such was this family, this domestic trinity from which young Dufrénoy was seeking aid and protection. Monsieur Dufrénoy, Madame Boutardin's brother, had possessed all the sentimental delicacy and the sensitivity which in his sister were translated as asperities. This poor artist, a highly talented musician, born for a better age, succumbed in youth to his labors, bequeathing his son no more than his poetical tendencies, his aptitudes, and his aspirations.

Michel knew he had an uncle somewhere, a certain Huguenin, whose name was never mentioned, one of those learned, modest, poor, resigned creatures who are the shame of opulent families. But Michel was forbidden to see him, and he had never even encountered him; hence there was no hope in that direction.

The orphan's situation in the world was, therefore, nicely determined: on the one hand, an uncle incapable of coming to his aid, on the other, a family rich in those qualities which are readily coined, with just enough heart to send the blood through its arteries.

There was not much here for which to thank Providence.

The next day, Michel went downstairs to his uncle's office, a somber chamber if ever there was one, and papered with a serious material: here were gathered the banker, his wife, and his son. The occasion threatened to be a solemn one.

Monsieur Boutardin, standing on the hearth, one hand in his vest and puffing out his chest, expressed himself in the following terms:

"Monsieur, you are about to hear certain words which I must ask you to engrave upon your memory. Your father was an artist—a word which says it all. I should like to think that you have not inherited his unfortunate instincts. Yet I have discerned in you certain seeds which must be rooted out. You tend to flounder in the sands of the ideal, and hitherto the clearest result of your efforts has been this prize for Latin verses, which you so shamefully brought here yesterday. Let us reckon up the situation. You are without fortune, which is a blunder. Moreover, you have no parents. Now, I want no poets in my family, you must realize. I want none of those individuals who spit their rhymes in people's faces; you have a wealthy family—do not compromise us. Now, the artist is not far from the grimacing humbug to whom I toss a hundred sous from my box for him to entertain my digestion. You understand me. No talent. Capacities. Since I have observed no particular aptitude in you, I have decided that you must enter the Casmodage and Co. banking house, under the direction of your cousin; take him as your example. Work to become a practical man! Remember that a certain share of the blood of the Boutardins flows in your veins, and the better to recall my words, take heed never to forget them. "

In 1960, as may be seen, the race of Prudhomme[7] was not yet extinct; the finest traditions had been preserved. What could Michel reply to such a diatribe? Nothing, hence he was silent, while his aunt and his cousin nodded their approval.

"Your vacation, " the banker resumed, "begins this morning, and ends this evening. Tomorrow you shall be introduced to the head of Casmodage and Co. You may go. "

The young man left his uncle's office, eyes filled with tears; yet he braced himself against despair. "I have no more than a single day of freedom, " he mused, "at least I shall spend it as I please; I have a little money, and it I shall spend on books beginning with the great poets and illustrious authors of the last century. Each evening they will console me for the vexations of each day. "

Chapter IV:       Concerning Some Nineteenth-Century Authors, and the Difficulty of Obtaining Them

Michel hurried out into the street and made for the Five Quarters Bookstore, an enormous warehouse on the Rue de la Paix, run by an important State official. "All the productions of the human mind must be here, " the young man reflected, as he entered a huge vestibule, in the center of which a telegraph bureau kept in touch with the remotest branch stores.