Bahorel was a good-natured mortal，who kept bad company，brave，a spendthrift，prodigal，and to the verge of generosity，talkative，and at times eloquent，bold to the verge of effrontery；the best fellow possible；he had daring waistcoats，and scarlet opinions；a wholesale blusterer，that is to say，loving nothing so much as a quarrel，unless it were an uprising；and nothing so much as an uprising，unless it were a revolution；always ready to smash a window-pane，then to tear up the pavement，then to demolish a government，just to see the effect of it；a student in his eleventh year.He had nosed about the law，but did not practise it.
He had taken for his device：
'Never a lawyer，'and for his armorial bearings a nightstand in which was visible a square cap.
Every time that he passed the law-school，which rarely happened，he buttoned up his frock-coat，——the paletot had not yet been invented，——and took hygienic precautions.
Of the school porter he said：
'What a fine old man！'and of the dean，M.Delvincourt：
'What a monument！'In his lectures he espied subjects for ballads，and in his professors occasions for caricature.
He wasted a tolerably large allowance，something like three thousand francs a year，in doing nothing.
He had peasant parents whom he had contrived to imbue with respect for their son.
He said of them：
'They are peasants and not bourgeois；that is the reason they are intelligent.'
Bahorel，a man of caprice，was scattered over numerous cafes；the others had habits，he had none.
He sauntered.
To stray is human.To saunter is Parisian.
In reality，he had a penetrating mind and was more of a thinker than appeared to view.
He served as a connecting link between the Friends of the A B C and other still unorganized groups，which were destined to take form later on.
In this conclave of young heads，there was one bald member.
The Marquis d'Avaray，whom Louis XVIII.
made a duke for having assisted him to enter a hackney-coach on the day when he emigrated，was wont to relate，that in 1814，on his return to France，as the King was disembarking at Calais，a man handed him a petition.
'What is your request？'said the King.
'Sire，a post-office.'
'What is your name？'
'L'Aigle.'
The King frowned，glanced at the signature of the petition and beheld the name written thus：
LESGLE.
This non-Bonoparte orthography touched the King and he began to smile.
'Sire，'resumed the man with the petition，'I had for ancestor a keeper of the hounds surnamed Lesgueules.
This surname furnished my name.
I am called Lesgueules，by contraction Lesgle，and by corruption l'Aigle.'This caused the King to smile broadly.
Later on he gave the man the posting office of Meaux，either intentionally or accidentally.
The bald member of the group was the son of this Lesgle，or Legle，and he signed himself，Legle[de Meaux].As an abbreviation，his companions called him Bossuet.
Bossuet was a gay but unlucky fellow.
His specialty was not to succeed in anything.
As an offset，he laughed at everything.At five and twenty he was bald.
His father had ended by owning a house and a field；but he，the son，had made haste to lose that house and field in a bad speculation.
He had nothing left.He possessed knowledge and wit，but all he did miscarried.Everything failed him and everybody deceived him；what he was building tumbled down on top of him.
If he were splitting wood，he cut off a finger.
If he had a mistress，he speedily discovered that he had a friend also.
Some misfortune happened to him every moment，hence his joviality.
He said：
'I live under falling tiles.'He was not easily astonished，because，for him，an accident was what he had foreseen，he took his bad luck serenely，and smiled at the teasing of fate，like a person who is listening to pleasantries.He was poor，but his fund of good humor was inexhaustible.He soon reached his last sou，never his last burst of laughter.When adversity entered his doors，he saluted this old acquaintance cordially，he tapped all catastrophes on the stomach；he was familiar with fatality to the point of calling it by its nickname：'Good day，Guignon，'he said to it.
These persecutions of fate had rendered him inventive.
He was full of resources.
He had no money，but he found means，when it seemed good to him，to indulge in'unbridled extravagance.'
One night，he went so far as to eat a'hundred francs'in a supper with a wench，which inspired him to make this memorable remark in the midst of the orgy：
'Pull off my boots，you five-louis jade.'
Bossuet was slowly directing his steps towards the profession of a lawyer；he was pursuing his law studies after the manner of Bahorel.
Bossuet had not much domicile，sometimes none at all.He lodged now with one，now with another，most often with Joly.Joly was studying medicine.
He was two years younger than Bossuet.
Joly was the'malade imaginaire'junior.
What he had won in medicine was to be more of an invalid than a doctor.
At three and twenty he thought himself a valetudinarian，and passed his life in inspecting his tongue in the mirror.
He affirmed that man becomes magnetic like a needle，and in his chamber he placed his bed with its head to the south，and the foot to the north，so that，at night，the circulation of his blood might not be interfered with by the great electric current of the globe.
During thunder storms，he felt his pulse.
Otherwise，he was the gayest of them all.All these young，maniacal，puny，merry incoherences lived in harmony together，and the result was an eccentric and agreeable being whom his comrades，who were prodigal of winged consonants，called Jolllly.'You may fly away on the four L's，'Jean Prouvaire said to him.[23]
[23]L'Aile，wing.
Joly had a trick of touching his nose with the tip of his cane，which is an indication of a sagacious mind.
All these young men who differed so greatly，and who，on the whole，can only be discussed seriously，held the same religion：
Progress.
All were the direct sons of the French Revolution.
