Daniel Clamens was a Jew, with a weakness for literature. He was an intelligent fellow, who knew how to manage his affairs with tact, so that, though he possessed neither fortune nor talent, he generally commanded the means of subsistence.

Clamens had three brothers,—one a composer, another a sculptor, and a third a painter: he himself was a dramatist. Of the four, Daniel had the least talent. He had never achieved any remarkable success. Still, he was very well known,—owing, in a great measure, to the reputation of his brothers. Eusebe had made the acquaintance of Clamens at the theatre, and was quite intimate with him. Daniel was anxious to get AdÉonne to personate a character in one of his productions, and had cultivated her provincial lover with that object in view. He had often invited Eusebe to dine with him, but the invitation had never been accepted. When the dramatist saw the lover of AdÉonne actually enter, he uttered an exclamation of joy.

“And do I behold you at last? You do not know how anxious I have been to see you. Now that you have come, there shall be no peace until you promise to come again.”

“I promise,” answered Eusebe. “I will come often. I have need of some diversion.”

“You say that, but you will not do it. For the rest, I understand that you keep your nest. You ought to be very happy.”

“I was.”

“Bah! that has not ended?”

“Not quite.”

“Has there been a quarrel?” inquired Daniel, quite anxiously.

“Oh, not at all. Quite the reverse. But it seems that we grow weary of happiness, as of every thing else, and I have need of some diversion.”

“Ah! you frightened and amazed me at the same time. AdÉonne is so charming.”

“Very charming, indeed,—so charming that for her I have neglected to follow the counsels of my father,—had even forgotten the object of my life.”

“Fortunately, you are young. What career do you design to pursue?”

“I know not. I wished to study life before deciding; but I have now been two years at Paris, and I am no more advanced than when I left my native province. My ignorance and my nothingness are humiliating. I am ashamed of being of no importance in society, because I feel that I can be of none.”

“Life, my dear sir, is not a difficult thing to learn. The trick is to know its secrets. When one has penetrated them, one has learned every thing.”

“Alas!” said Eusebe, “if I have not been sufficiently skilful to learn life, how could I penetrate its secrets?”

“With the gimlet of friendship.”

“A painter, with whom I formerly associated, told me that friendship no longer existed.”

“My brother the painter is also of that opinion. I have always thought that skepticism is developed by the mixing of colors. Distrust, my dear friend, people who deny the sentiments: such persons look upon the world through the impure medium of their own natures.”

“You do not like your brother, then?”

“I adore him,” responded the dramatist; “but I do not share his principles. To prove to you that friendship does exist, I offer you mine. You wish to know the world,—to study life. Come, and I will give you the clew. I will be your guide,—your adviser. We will devote ourselves to social anatomy, and dissect humanity. I will show you the manner of holding the scalpel.”

“Let us begin,” said Eusebe, eagerly.

“One moment,” said his friend. “Before we commence, it is requisite that I should give you a piece of advice. If you wish to see all, hear all, and study all, it will be necessary, before setting out, to pad your elbows, bridle your tongue, and put cotton in your left ear, so that what enters at the right cannot get out again. And now,” continued Clamens, with a majestic gesture, “follow me, as is said in ‘William Tell.’”

“Where are you going?” asked Eusebe.

“My friend,” responded the cicerone, “the best way to arrive anywhere is not to know where you are going.”