of illusions, impelled by irrepressible longings for glory—­and I found the realities of the craft, the practical difficulties of the trade, the hard facts of poverty.  In my enthusiasm (it is kept well under control now), my first ebullition of youthful spirits, I did not see the social machinery at work; so I had to learn to see it by bumping against the wheels and bruising myself against the shafts, and chains.  Now you are about to learn, as I learned, that between you and all these fair dreamed-of things lies the strife of men, and passions, and necessities.

“Willy-nilly, you must take part in a terrible battle; book against book, man against man, party against party; make war you must, and that systematically, or you will be abandoned by your own party.  And they are mean contests; struggles which leave you disenchanted, and wearied, and depraved, and all in pure waste; for it often happens that you put forth all your strength to win laurels for a man whom you despise, and maintain, in spite of yourself, that some second-rate writer is a genius.

“There is a world behind the scenes in the theatre of literature.  The public in front sees unexpected or well-deserved success, and applauds; the public does not see the preparations, ugly as they always are, the painted supers, the claqueurs hired to applaud, the stage carpenters, and all that lies behind the scenes.  You are still among the audience.  Abdicate, there is still time, before you set your foot on the lowest step of the throne for which so many ambitious spirits are contending, and do not sell your honor, as I do, for a livelihood.”  Etienne’s eyes filled with tears as he spoke.

“Do you know how I make a living?” he continued passionately.  “The little stock of money they gave me at home was soon eaten up.  A piece of mine was accepted at the Theatre-Francais just as I came to an end of it.  At the Theatre-Francais the influence of a first gentleman of the bedchamber, or of a prince of the blood, would not be enough to secure a turn of favor; the actors only make concessions to those who threaten their self-love.  If it is in your power to spread a report that the jeune premier has the asthma, the leading lady a fistula where you please, and the soubrette has foul breath, then your piece would be played to-morrow.  I do not know whether in two years’ time, I who speak to you now, shall be in a position to exercise such power.  You need so many to back you.  And where and how am I to gain my bread meanwhile?

“I tried lots of things; I wrote a novel, anonymously; old Doguereau gave me two hundred francs for it, and he did not make very much out of it himself.  Then it grew plain to me that journalism alone could give me a living.  The next thing was to find my way into those shops.  I will not tell you all the advances I made, nor how often I begged in vain.  I will say nothing of the six months I spent as extra hand on a paper, and was told that I scared subscribers