The only ambition of this great powerful frame was to do nothing, to grovel in idleness and satiation from hour to hour.

He wanted to eat well, sleep well, to abundantly satisfy his passions, without moving from his place, without running the risk of the slightest fatigue.
The profession of advocate had terrified him, and he shuddered at the idea of tilling the soil.

He had plunged into art, hoping to find therein a calling suitable to an idle man.

The paint-brush struck him as being an instrument light to handle, and he fancied success easy.
His dream was a life of cheap sensuality, a beautiful existence full of houris, of repose on divans, of victuals and intoxication.
The dream lasted so long as daddy Laurent sent the crown pieces.

But when the young man, who was already thirty, perceived the wolf at the door, he began to reflect.