Meryon spoke with admiration of Michelet’s Jeanne d’Arc, though he swore the book was not written by Michelet. (Not such a wild shot, though not correct in this particular instance, for the world has since discovered that several books posthumously attributed to Michelet were written by his widow.) The etcher was interested in the cabalistic arts.  On one of his large plates he drew some eagles, and when Baudelaire objected that these birds did not frequent Parisian skies he mysteriously whispered “those folks at the Tuileries” often launched as a rite the sacred eagles to study the omens and presages.  He was firmly convinced of this.  After the termination of the trying visit Baudelaire, with acrid irony, asks himself why he, with his nerves usually unstrung, did not go quite mad, and he concludes, “Seriously I addressed to Heaven the grateful prayers of a pharisee.”

In March the same year he assures the same correspondent that decidedly Meryon does not know how to conduct himself.  He knows nothing of life, neither does he know how to sell his plates or find an editor.  His work is very easy to sell.  Baudelaire was hardly a practical business man, but, like Poe, he had sense enough to follow his market.  He instantly recognised the commercial value of Meryon’s Paris set, but knew the etcher was a hopeless character.  He wrote to Poulet-Malassis concerning a proposed purchase of Meryon’s work by the publisher.  It never came to anything.  The etcher was very suspicious as to paper and printing.  He grew violent when the poet asked him to illustrate some little poems and sonnets.  Had he, Meryon, not written poems himself?  Had not the mighty Victor Hugo addressed flattering words to him?  Baudelaire, without losing interest, then thought of Daumier as an illustrator for a new edition of Les Fleurs du Mal.  It must not be supposed, however, that Meryon was ungrateful.  He was deeply affected by the praise accorded him in Baudelaire’s Salon of 1859.  He wrote in February, 1860, sending his Views of Paris to the critic as a feeble acknowledgment of the pleasure he had enjoyed when reading the brilliant interpretative criticism.  He said that he had created an epoch in etching—­which was the literal truth—­and he had saved a rapidly vanishing Paris for the pious curiosity of future generations.  He speaks of his “naive heart” and hoped that Baudelaire in turn would dream as he did over the plates.  This letter was signed simply “Meryon, 20 Rue Duperre.”  The acute accent placed over the “e” in his name by the French poet and by biographers, critics, and editors since was never used by the etcher.  It took years before Baudelaire could persuade the Parisians that Poe did not spell his name “Edgard Poe.”  And we remember the fate of Liszt and Whistler, who were until recently known in Paris as “Litz” and “Whistler.”  With the aid of Champfleury and Banville, Baudelaire tried to bring Meryon’s art to the cognisance of the Minister of Beaux-Arts, but to no avail.  Why?