he pen, we had no other principle than our pay, and were utterly
indifferent at whom we struck, even though the blow should prove fatal.
That we should become sceptical on every subject; that we should cease
to bestow credence on anything, believing that all around was false,
hypocritical, and unreal as ourselves, was natural enough; but this
frame of mind bears its own weighty retribution, and not even the
miserable victim of superstitious fear dreads solitude like him whose
mind demands the constant stimulant of intercourse, the torrent of new
ideas, that whirls him along, unreflecting and unthinking.

It will be easily seen that all my narrative of myself met but little
faith in such company. They unhesitatingly rejected the whole story
of my wealth; and my future restoration to rank and riches used to be
employed as a kind of synonym for the Greek calends. The worst of all
this was, their disbelief infected even me, and I gradually began to
look upon myself as an impostor. My hope--the guide-star that cheered
me in many a dark and gloomy period--began to wane, and I felt that ere
long all those aspirations which had spirited me on in life would lie
cold and dead within me, and that my horizon, would extend no further
than where each daily sun sunk to rest. To show any discontent with my
walk, to evince in the slightest degree any misgivings that we of "La
petite Presse" did not give laws to taste, morals, jurisprudence, and
legislation, would have been high treason. To imply a doubt that we held
in our hands, not alone the destinies of Paris, but of Europe,--of all
civilization,--would have been a rank and outrageous heresy. Like the
priest, the journalist can never unfrock himself. The mark of the ink,
more tenacious than the blood on Lady Macbeth's fingers, will "never
out." What, then, could I do? For, wearied of my calling, I yearned
for a little truth, for a new glimpse of reality, however short and
fleeting.

Full of these thoughts, I repaired one morning to the Trou-aux-Bois,
where fortunately I found my friend Paul alone,--at least, except three
secretaries, to whom he was dictating by turns, he had no one with him!
"Wait till I have finished this 'Attack of Wolves on a Caravan,'" said
he, "and the 'Death of Jules de Tavanne by Poison.' and I 'm your
man. Meanwhile, step into my study; there are masses of newspapers and
letters which you can read freely."

He did not detain me long. Apparently the wolves w