“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.” CHAPTER XXXII. “Hold!” said Clamens. “Do you see this expanse of asphaltum, which extends from where we stand to the Chaussée d’Antin?” “Yes,” replied Eusebe: “it is the Boulevard des Italiens.”