Unhappily it was the voice of one of his oldest friends, the author
Octave Bertin; for they had been school-fellows at the Lycee Henri IV.
Bertin, a little Parisian, quick-witted, elegant, and precocious, had
welcomed 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.
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