lock
in the morning, his hands burning with the last grasps, his brain and
heart intoxicated with the strong wine of praise. He walked with long and
joyful strides through the fairy scene of a beautiful moonlight, in the
fresh morning wind which made his clothes flutter and caressed his face.
He thought he even felt the breath of fame.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Dreams, instead of living
Fortunate enough to keep those one loves
Learned that one leaves college almost ignorant
Paint from nature
The sincere age when one thinks aloud
Upon my word, there are no ugly ones (women)
Very young, and was in love with love

A ROMANCE OF YOUTH

By FRANCOIS COPPEE

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XI

SUCCESS

Success, which usually is as fickle as justice, took long strides and
doubled its stations in order to reach Amedee. The Cafe de Seville, and
the coterie of long-haired writers, were busying themselves with the
rising poet already. His suite of sonnets, published in La Guepe, pleased
some of the journalists, who reproduced them in portions in
well-distributed journals. Ten days after Amedee's meeting with
Jocquelet, the latter recited his poem "Before Sebastopol" at a
magnificent entertainment given at the Gaite for the benefit of an
illustrious actor who had become blind and reduced to poverty.

This "dramatic solemnity," to use the language of the advertisement,
began by being terribly tiresome. There was an audience present who were
accustomed to grand Parisian soirees, a blase and satiated public, who,
upon this warm evening in the suffocating theatre, were more fatigued and
satiated than ever. The sleepy journalists collapsed in their chairs, and
in the back part of the stage-boxes, ladies' faces, almost green under
paint, showed the excessive lassitude of a long winter of pleasure. The
Parisians had all come there from custom, without having the slightest
desire to do so, just as they always came, like galley-slaves condemned
to "first nights." They were so lifeless that they did not even feel the
slightest horror at seeing one another grow old. This chloroformed
audience was afflicted with a long and too heavy programme, as is the
custom in performances of this kind. They played fragments of the best
known pieces, and sang songs from operas long since fallen into disuse
even on street organs. This public saw the same comedians march out; the
most famous are the mo