He was about to confide to Jocquelet the doubts and sufferings of a sincere artist, but Jocquelet, as we have said, thought only of himself, and brusquely interrupted the young poet: 

“You do not happen to have a poem with you—­something short, a hundred or a hundred and fifty lines—­a poem intended for effect, that one could recite?”

Amedee had copied out that very day, at the office, a war story, a heroic episode of Sebastopol that he had heard Colonel Lantz relate not long since at Madame Roger’s, and had put into verse with a good French sentiment and quite the military spirit, verse which savored of powder, and went off like reports of musketry.  He took the sheets out of his pocket, and, leading the comedian into a solitary by-path of sycamores which skirted the Luxembourg orangery, he read his poem to him in a low voice.  Jocquelet, who did not lack a certain literary instinct, was very enthusiastic, for he foresaw a success for himself, and said to the poet: 

“You read those verses just like a poet, that is, very badly.  But no matter, this battle is very effective, and I see what I could do with it-with my voice.  But what do you mean?” added he, planting himself in front of his friend.  “Do you write verses like these and nobody knows anything about them?  It is absurd.  Do you wish, then, to imitate Chatterton?  That is an old game, entirely used up!  You must push yourself, show yourself.  I will take charge of that myself!  Your evening is free, is it not?  Very well, come with me; before six o’clock I shall have told your name to twenty trumpeters, who will make all Paris resound with the news that there is a poet in the Faubourg Saint-Jacques.  I will wager, you savage, that you never have put your foot into the Cafe de Seville.  Why, my dear fellow, it is our first manufactory of fame!  Here is the Odeon omnibus, get on!  We shall be at the Boulevard Montmartre in twenty minutes, and I shall baptize you there, as a great man, with a glass of absinthe.”

Dazzled and carried away, Amedee humored him and climbed upon the outside of the omnibus with his comrade.  The vehicle hurried them quickly along toward the quay, crossed the Seine, the Carrousel, and passed before the Theatre-Francais, at which Jocquelet, thinking of his approaching debut, shook his fist, exclaiming, “Now I am ready for you!” Here the young men were planted upon the asphalt boulevard, in front of the Cafe de Seville.

Do not go to-day to see this old incubator, in which so many political and literary celebrities have been hatched; for you will only find a cafe, just like any other, with its groups of ugly little Jews who discuss the coming races, and here and there a poor creature, painted like a Jezebel, dying of chagrin over her pot of beer.