ho has made an
enormous success in an act from the "Precieuses," at the last quarter's
examination--he says so himself, without any useless modesty--Jocquelet,
who will certainly have the first comedy prize at the next examination,
and will make his debut with out delay at the Comedie Francaise! All
this he announces in one breath, like a speech learned by heart, with
his terrible voice, like a quack selling shaving-paste from a gilded
carriage. In two minutes that favorite word of theatrical people had
been repeated thirty times, punctuating the phrases: "I! I! I! I!"

Amedee is only half pleased at the meeting. Jocquelet was always a
little too noisy to please him. After all, he was an old comrade, and
out of politeness the poet congratulated him upon his success.

Jocquelet questioned him. What was Amedee doing? What had become of him?
Where was his literary work? All this was asked with such cordiality
and warmth of manner that one would have thought that Jocquelet was
interested in Amedee, and had a strong friendship for him. Nothing of
the sort. Jocquelet was interested in only one person in this world,
and that person was named Jocquelet. One 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