writings, and are fearful of lessening it by putting it to use in the
daily affairs of life.

Raoul related his morning to Florine and Blondet. He gave them an
inimitable sketch of Gigonnet, his fireplace without fire, his shabby
wall-paper, his stairway, his asthmatic bell, his aged straw mattress,
his den without warmth, like his eye. He made them laugh about this
new uncle; they neither troubled themselves about du Tillet and his
pretended want of money, nor about an old usurer so ready to disburse.
What was there to worry about in that?

"He has only asked you fifteen per cent," said Blondet; "you ought to
be grateful to him. At twenty-five per cent you don't bow to those old
fellows. This is money-lending; usury doesn't begin till fifty per
cent; and then you despise the usurer."

"Despise him!" cried Florine; "if any of your friends lent you money
at that price they'd pose as your benefactors."

"She is right; and I am glad I don't owe anything now to du Tillet,"
said Raoul.

Why this lack of penetration as to their personal affairs in men whose
business it is to penetrate all things? Perhaps the mind cannot be
complete at all points; perhaps artists of every kind live too much in
the present moment to study the future; perhaps they are too observant
of the ridiculous to notice snares, or they may believe that none
would dare to lay a snare for such as they. However this may be, the
future arrived in due time. Twenty days later Raoul's notes were
protested, but Florine obtained from the Court of commerce an