useful and powerful distraction for Amedee
Violette's grief. L'Atelier, when played the first week in April, did
not obtain more than a respectful greeting from the public; it was
an indifferent success. This vulgar society, these simple, plain,
sentiments, the sweetheart in a calico gown, the respectable old man in
short frock and overalls, the sharp lines where here and there boldly
rang out a slang word of the faubourg; above all, the scene representing
a mill in full activity, with its grumbling workmen, its machines in
motion, even the continual puffing of steam, all displeased the worldly
people and shocked them. This was too abrupt a change from luxurious
drawing-rooms, titled persons, aristocratic adulteresses, and
declarations of love murmured to the heroine in full toilette by a lover
leaning his elbow upon the piano, with all the airs and graces of a
first-class dandy. However, Jocquelet, in the old artisan's role, was
emphatic and exaggerated, and an ugly and commonplace debutante was an
utter failure. The criticisms, generally routine in character, were
not gracious, and the least surly ones condemned Amedee's attempt,
qualifying it as an honorable effort. There were some slashes;
one "long-haired" fellow from the Cafe de Seville failed in his
criticism--the very one who once wrote a description of the violation of
a tomb--to crush the author of L'Atelier in an ultra-classical article,
wherein he protested against realism and called to witness all the
silent, sculptured authors in the hall.

It was a singular thing, but Amedee was easily consoled over his
failure. He did not have the necessary qualities to succeed in the
theatrical line? Very well, he would give it up, that was all! It
was not such a great misfortune, upon the whole, to abandon the most
difficult art of all, but not the first; which did not allow a poet to
act his own free liking. Amedee began to compose verses for himself--for
his own gratification; to become intoxicated with his own rhymes and
fancies; to gather with a sad pleasure the melancholy flowers that his
trouble had caused to blossom in his heart.

Meanwhile summer arrived, and Maurice returned to Paris with his wife
and a little boy, born at Nice, and Amedee must go to see them, although
he knew in advance that the visit would make him unhappy.

The amateur painter was handsomer than ever. He was alone in his studio,
wearing his same red jacket. He had decorated and even cram