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."

"What, jealous? Are you jealous of his bit of ribbon?"

"No, uncle, I regret nothing; not even Larive's good fortune."

M. Mouillard fixed his eyes on the cloth, and began again, after a
moment's silence:

"I, Fabien, do regret some things. It will be mournful at times, growing
old alone here. Yet, after all, it will be some consolation to me to
think that you others are satisfied with life, to welcome you here for
your holidays."

"You can do better than th