elcomed the awkward enthusiastic advances of the overgrown youth
fresh from the country,--ungainly in body and mind, his clothes
always too short for his long legs and arms, a mixture of innocence,
simplicity, ignorance, and bad taste, always emphatic, with
overflowing spirits, yet capable of the most original sallies, and
striking images. None of this had escaped the sharp malicious eye of
young Bertin; neither Clerambault's absurdities nor the treasures of
his mind, and after thinking him over he had decided to make a friend
of him. Clerambault's unfeigned admiration had something to do with
this decision. For several years they shared the superabundance of
their youthful ideas. Both dreamed of being artists; they read
their literary attempts to each other, and engaged in interminable
discussions, in which Bertin always had the upper hand. He was apt to
be first in everything. Clerambault never thought of contesting his
superiority; he was much more likely to use his fists to convince
anyone who denied it. He stood in open-mouthed admiration before his
brilliant friend, who won all the University prizes without seeming to
work for them, and whom his teachers thought destined to the highest
honours--official and academic, of course.

Bertin was of the same mind as his teachers; he was in haste to
succeed, and believed that the fruit of triumph has more flavour when
one's teeth are young enough to bite into it. He had scarcely left the
University when he found means to publish in a great Parisian review
a series of essays which immediately brought him to the notice of the
general public. And without pausing to take breath, he produced
one after another a novel in the style of d'Annunzio, a comedy
in Rostand's vein, a book on love, another on reforms in the
Constitution, a study of Modernism, a monograph on Sarah Bernhardt,
and, finally, the "Dialogues of the Living." The sarcastic but
measured spirit of this last work obtained for him the position of
column writer on one of the leading dailies. Having thus entered
journalism he stayed in the profession, and became one of the
ornaments of the Paris of Letters, while Clerambault's name was still
unknown. The latter had been slow in gaining the mastery over his
inward resources, and was so occupied in struggles with himself that
he had no time for the conquest of the public. His first works, which
were published with difficulty, were not read by more than a dozen
people.