ountenances, asking to see the author and the interpreter, and to be
presented to them, that they might congratulate them with an enthusiastic
word and a shake of the hand. Yes! it was a success, an instantaneous
one. It was certainly that rare tropical flower of the Parisian
greenhouse which blossoms out so seldom, but so magnificently.

One large, very common-looking man, wearing superb diamond shirt-buttons,
came in his turn to shake Amedee's hand, and in a hoarse, husky voice
which would have been excellent to propose tickets "cheaper than at the
office!" he asked for the manuscript of the poem that had just been
recited.

"It is so that I may put you upon the first page of my tomorrow's
edition, young man, and I publish eighty thousand. Victor Gaillard,
editor of 'Le Tapage'. Does that please you?"

He took the manuscript without listening to the thanks of the poet, who
trembled with joy at the thought that his work had caught the fancy of
this Barnum of the press, the foremost advertiser in France and Europe,
and that his verses would meet the eyes of two hundred thousand readers.

Yes, it was certainly a success, and he experienced the first bitterness
of it as soon as he arrived the next morning at the Cafe de Seville,
where he now went every two or three days at the hour for absinthe. His
verses had appeared in that morning's Tapage, printed in large type and
headed by a few lines of praise written by Victor Gaillard, a la Barnum.
As soon as Amedee entered the cafe he saw that he was the object of
general attention, and the lyric gentlemen greeted him with acclamations
and bravos; but at certain expressions of countenance, constrained looks,
and bitter smiles, the impressionable young man felt with a sudden
sadness that they already envied him.

"I warned you of it," said Paul Sillery to him, as he led him into a
corner of the cafe. "Our good friends are not pleased, and that is very
natural. The greater part of these rhymers are 'cheap jewellers,' and
they are jealous of a master workman. Above all things, pretend not to
notice it; they will never forgive you for guessing their bad sentiments.
And then you must be indulgent to them. You have your beautiful
lieutenant's epaulettes, Violette, do not be too hard upon these poor
privates. They also are fighting under the poetic flag, and ours is a
poverty-stricken regiment. Now you must profit by your good luck. Here
you are, celebrated in forty-eight hours. D