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, come with me; before six o'clock I
shall have told your name to twenty trumpeters, who will make all
Paris resound with the news that there is a poet in the Faubourg
Saint-Jacques. I will wager, you savage, that you never have put your
foot into the Cafe de Seville. Why, my dear fellow, it is our first
manufactory of fame! Here is the Odeon omnibus, get on! We shall be
at the Boulevard Montmartre in twenty minutes, and I shall baptize you
there, as a great man, with a glass of absinthe."

Dazzled and carried away, Amedee humored him and climbed upon the
outside of the omnibus with his comrade. The vehicle hurried them
quickly along toward the quay, crossed the Seine, the Carrousel, and
passed before the Theatre-Francais, at which Jocquelet, thinking of his
approaching debut, shook his fist, exclaiming, "Now I am ready for you!"
Here the young men were planted upon the asphalt boulevard, in front of
the Cafe de Seville.

Do not go to-day to see this old incubator, in which so many political
and literary celebrities have been hatched; for you will only find
a cafe, just like any other, with its groups of ugly little Jews who
discuss the coming races, and here and there a poor creature, painted
like a Jezebel, dying of chagrin over her pot of beer.

At the decline of the