ce; he had a projecting forehead; all men with projecting
foreheads are ideologists.

"But the 'Children'; oh! ah! as to the 'Children'! I got two
thousand between Paris and Blois. Jolly business! but there is not
much to say. You just show a little vignette to the mother,
pretending to hide it from the child: naturally the child wants to
see, and pulls mamma's gown and cries for its newspaper, because
'Papa has _dot_ his.' Mamma can't let her brat tear the gown; the
gown costs thirty francs, the subscription six--economy; result,
subscription. It is an excellent thing, meets an actual want; it
holds a place between dolls and sugar-plums, the two eternal
necessities of childhood.

"I have had a quarrel here at the table d'hote about the
newspapers and my opinions. I was unsuspiciously eating my dinner
next to a man with a gray hat who was reading the 'Debats.' I said
to myself, 'Now for my rostrum eloquence. He is tied to the
dynasty; I'll cook him; this triumph will be capital practice for
my ministerial talents.' So I went to work and praised his
'Debats.' Hein! if I didn't lead him along! Thread by thread, I
began to net my man. I launched my four-horse phrases, and the
F-sharp arguments, and all the rest of the cursed stuff. Everybody
listened; and I saw a man who had July as plain as day on his
mustache, just ready to nibble at a 'Movement.' Well, I don't know
how it was, but I unluckily let fall the word 'blockhead.'
Thunder! you should have seen my gray hat, my dynastic hat
(shocking bad hat, anyhow), who got the bit in his teeth and was
furiously angry. I put on my grand air--you know--and said to him:
'Ah, ca! Monsieur, you are remarkably aggressive; if you are not
content, I am ready to give you satisfaction; I fought in July.'
'Though the father of a family,' he replied, 'I am ready--'
'Father of a family!' I exclaimed; 'my dear sir, have you any
children?' 'Yes.' 'Twelve years old?' 'Just about.' 'Well, then,
the "Children's Journal" is the very thing for you; six francs a
year, one number a month, double columns, edited by great literary
lights, well got up, good paper, engravings from charming sketches
by our best artists, actual colored drawings of the Indies--will
not fade.' I fired my broadside 'feelings of a father, etc.,
etc.,'--in short, a subscription instead of a quarrel. 'There's
nobody but Gaudissart who can get out of