MY NEPHEW JOSEPH

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY

(Scene passes at Versailles; two old gentlemen are conversing, seated on a bench in the King’s garden.)

Journalism, my dear Monsieur, is the evil of the times.  I tell you what, if I had a son, I would hesitate a long while before giving him a literary education.  I would have him learn chemistry, mathematics, fencing, cosmography, swimming, drawing, but not composition—­no, not composition.  Then, at least, he would be prevented from becoming a journalist.  It is so easy, so tempting.  They take pen and paper and write, it doesn’t matter what, apropos to it doesn’t matter what, and you have a newspaper article.  In order to become a watchmaker, a lawyer, an upholsterer, in short, all the liberal arts, study, application, and a special kind of knowledge are necessary; but nothing like that is required for a journalist.”

“You are perfectly right, my dear Monsieur, the profession of journalism should be restricted by examinations, the issuing of warrants, the granting of licenses—­”

“And they could pay well for their licenses, these gentlemen.  Do you know that journalism is become very profitable?  There are some young men in it who, all at once, without a fixed salary, and no capital whatever, make from ten, twenty to thirty thousand francs a year.”

“Now, that is strange!  But how do they become journalists?”

“Ah!  It appears they generally commence by being reporters.  Reporters slip in everywhere, in official gatherings, and theatres, never missing a first night, nor a fire, nor a great ball, nor a murder.”

“How well acquainted you are with all this!”

“Yes, very well acquainted.  Ah!  Mon Dieu!  You are my friend, you will keep my secret, and if you will not repeat this in Versailles—­I will tell you how it is—­we have one in the family.”

“One what?”

“A reporter.”

“A reporter in your family, which always seemed so united!  How can that be?”

“One can almost say that the devil was at the bottom of it.  You know my nephew Joseph—­”

“Little Joseph!  Is he a reporter?”

“Yes.”

“Little Joseph, I can see him in the park now, rolling a hoop, bare-legged, with a broad white collar, not more than six or seven years ago—­and now he writes for newspapers!”

“Yes, newspapers!  You know my brother keeps a pharmacy in the Rue Montorgueil, an old and reliable firm, and naturally my brother said to himself, ‘After me, my son.’  Joseph worked hard at chemistry, followed the course of study, and had already passed an examination.  The boy was steady and industrious, and had a taste for the business.  On Sundays for recreation he made tinctures, prepared prescriptions, pasted the labels and rolled pills.  When, as misfortune would have it, a murder was committed about twenty feet from my brother’s pharmacy—­”