is either an actor or he is not.
This personage was always one wherever he was--in an omnibus, while
putting on his suspenders, even with the one he loved. When he said to a
newcomer, "How do you do?" he put so much feeling into this very original
question, that the one questioned asked himself whether he really had not
just recovered from a long and dangerous illness. Now, at this time
Jocquelet found himself in the presence of an unknown and poor young
poet. What role ought such an eminent person as himself to play in such
circumstances? To show affection for the young man, calm his timidity,
and patronize him without too much haughtiness; that was the position to
take, and Jocquelet acted it.

Amedee was an artless dupe, and, touched by the interest shown him, he
frankly replied:

"Well, my dear friend, I have worked hard this winter. I am not
dissatisfied. I think that I have made some progress; but if you knew how
hard and difficult it is!"

He was about to confide to Jocquelet the doubts and sufferings of a
sincere artist, but Jocquelet, as we have said, thought only of himself,
and brusquely interrupted the young poet:

"You do not happen to have a poem with you--something short, a hundred or
a hundred and fifty lines--a poem intended for effect, that one could
recite?"

Amedee had copied out that very day, at the office, a war story, a heroic
episode of Sebastopol that he had heard Colonel Lantz relate not long
since at Madame Roger's, and had put into verse with a good French
sentiment and quite the military spirit, verse which savored of powder,
and went off like reports of musketry. He took the sheets out of his
pocket, and, leading the comedian into a solitary by-path of sycamores
which skirted the Luxembourg orangery, he read his poem to him in a low
voice. Jocquelet, who did not lack a certain literary instinct, was very
enthusiastic, for he foresaw a success for himself, and said to the poet:

"You read those verses just like a poet, that is, very badly. But no
matter, this battle is very effective, and I see what I could do with
it-with my voice. But what do you mean?" added he, planting himself in
front of his friend. "Do you write verses like these and nobody knows
anything about them? It is absurd. Do you wish, then, to imitate
Chatterton? That is an old game, entirely used up! You must push
yourself, show yourself. I will take charge of that myself! Your evening
is free, is it not? Very well,