Toward the last of January, Amedee suddenly returned to Paris.  He would not be obliged to see Maurice or his young bride at once.  They had been married one month and would remain in the South until the end of winter.  He was recalled by the rehearsals of his drama.  The notary who had charge of his affairs gave him twelve thousand pounds’ income, a large competency, which enabled him to work for the pure and disinterested love of art, and without concessions to common people.  The young poet furnished an elegant apartment in an old and beautiful house on the Quai d’Orsay, and sought out some of his old comrades—­among others Paul Sillery, who now held a distinguished place in journalism and reappeared a little in society, becoming very quickly reconciled with life.

His first call was upon Madame Roger.  He was very glad to see Maurice’s mother; she was a little sad, but indulgent to Maurice, and resigned to her son’s marriage, because she felt satisfied that he had acted like a man of honor.  He also went at once to Montmartre to embrace Louise and Madame Gerard, who received him with great demonstrations.  They were not so much embarrassed in money matters, for Maurice was very generous and had aided his wife’s family.  Louise gave lessons now for a proper remuneration, and Madame Gerard was able to refuse, with tears of gratitude, the poet’s offer of assistance, who filially opened his purse to her.  He dined as usual with his old friends, and they had tact enough not to say too much about the newly married ones; but there was one empty place at the table.  He was once more seized with thoughts of the absent, and returned to his room that evening with an attack of the blues.

The rehearsal of his piece, which had just begun at the Comedie Francaise, the long sittings at the theatre, and the changes to be made from day to day, were a 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