this present generation--four
pleasant young fellows whose existence was problematical, since they
were not known to possess either stock or landed estates, yet they
lived, and lived well. These ingenious _condottieri_ of a modern
industrialism, that has come to be the most ruthless of all warfares,
leave anxieties to their creditors, and keep the pleasures for
themselves. They are careful for nothing, save dress. Still with the
courage of the Jean Bart order, that will smoke cigars on a barrel of
powder (perhaps by way of keeping up their character), with a quizzing
humor that outdoes the minor newspapers, sparing no one, not even
themselves; clear-sighted, wary, keen after business, grasping yet open
handed, envious yet self-complacent, profound politicians by fits and
starts, analyzing everything, guessing everything--not one of these in
question as yet had contrived to make his way in the world which they
chose for their scene of operations. Only one of the four, indeed, had
succeeded in coming as far as the foot of the ladder.

To have money is nothing; the self-made man only finds out all that he
lacks after six months of flatteries. Andoche Finot, the self-made man
in question, stiff, taciturn, cold, and dull-witted, possessed the sort
of spirit which will not shrink from groveling before any creature that
may be of use to him, and the cunning to be insolent when he needs a man
no longer. Like one of the grotesque figures in the ballet in _Gustave_,
he was a marquis behind, a boor in front. And this high-priest of
commerce had a following.

Emile Blondet, Journalist, with abundance of intellectual power,
reckless, brilliant, and indolent, could do anything that he chose, yet
he submitted to be exploited with his eyes open. Treacherous or kind
upon impulse, a man to love, but not to respect; quick-witted as a
_soubrette_, unable to refuse his pen to any one that asked, or his
heart to the first that would borrow it, Emile was the most fascinating
of those light-of-loves of whom a fantastic modern wit declared that "he
liked them better in satin slippers than in boots."

The third in the party, Couture by name, lived by speculation, grafting
one affair upon another to make the gains pay for the losses. He was
always between wind and water, keeping himself afloat by his bold,
sudden strokes and the nervous energy of his play. Hither and thither
he would swim over the vast sea of interests in Paris, in quest of so