“The Marquis de Gesvres took a positively frenzied pleasure in spending money; it was a perpetual need--a craving; it seemed as though he were grateful to me for helping him to satisfy it--for increasing his appetite by the addition of my own. It was he who taught me (the contrary of Faby) to like dress. I think I wore my clothes well; he was a good master; his elegance was perfectly natural--like a second sincerity. I got on with him very well. We spent whole mornings together at the shirtmaker’s, the shoemaker’s, the tailor’s; he paid particular attention to shoes, saying that you could tell a man as certainly by his shoes as by the rest of his dress and by his features--and more secretly.... He taught me to spend money without keeping accounts and without taking thought beforehand as to whether I should have enough to satisfy my fancy, my desire or my hunger. He laid it down as a principle that of these three it was always hunger that should be satisfied last, for (I remember his words) the appeal of fancy or desire is fugitive, while hunger is certain to return and only becomes more imperative the longer it has to wait. He taught me, too, not to enjoy a thing more because it had cost a great deal, nor less if, by chance, it cost nothing at all. “It was at this point that I lost my mother. A telegram called me suddenly back to Bucharest; I arrived in time only to see her dead. There I learnt that after the Marquis’s departure she had run so deeply into debt that she had left no more than just enough to clear her estate, so that there was no expectation for me of a single copeck, or a single pfennig or a single groschen. Directly after the funeral I returned to Paris, where I thought I should find my uncle de Gesvres; but he had unexpectedly left for Russia without leaving an address. “There is no need to tell you my reflections. True, I had certain accomplishments in my outfit by means of which one can always manage to pull through; but the more I was in need of them, the more repugnant I felt to making use of them. Fortunately one night as I was walking the pavement rather at a loose end, I came across Proto’s ex-mistress--the Carola Venitequa you saw yesterday--who gave me a decent house-room. A few days later I received a rather mysterious communication to say that a scanty allowance would be paid me on the first of every month at a certain solicitor’s; I have a horror of getting to the bottom of things and I drew it without further enquiries. Then you came along ... and now you know more or less everything I felt inclined to tell you.” “It is fortunate,” said Julius solemnly, “it is fortunate, Lafcadio, that a little money is coming your way; with no profession, with no education, condemned to live by expedients ... now that I know you, and such as I take you for, you were ready for anything.”