At each new poem bravos were thundered out, and the young man’s heart expanded with joy under this warm sunshine of success.  His audience vied with each other to approach Amedee first, and to shake his hand.  Alas! some of those who were there would, later, annoy him by their low envy and treason; but now, in the generous frankness of their youth, they welcomed him as a master.

What an intoxicating evening!  Amedee reached his home about two o’clock in the morning, his hands burning with the last grasps, his brain and heart intoxicated with the strong wine of praise.  He walked with long and joyful strides through the fairy scene of a beautiful moonlight, in the fresh morning wind which made his clothes flutter and caressed his face.  He thought he even felt the breath of fame.

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A ROMANCE OF YOUTH

By Francois Coppee

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XI

SUCCESS

Success, which usually is as fickle as justice, took long strides and doubled its stations in order to reach Amedee.  The Cafe de Seville, and the coterie of long-haired writers, were busying themselves with the rising poet already.  His suite of sonnets, published in La Guepe, pleased some of the journalists, who reproduced them in portions in well-distributed journals.  Ten days after Amedee’s meeting with Jocquelet, the latter recited his poem “Before Sebastopol” at a magnificent entertainment given at the Gaite for the benefit of an illustrious actor who had become blind and reduced to poverty.

This “dramatic solemnity,” to use the language of the advertisement, began by being terribly tiresome.  There was an audience present who were accustomed to grand Parisian soirees, a blase and satiated public, who, upon this warm evening in the suffocating theatre, were more fatigued and satiated than ever.  The sleepy journalists collapsed in their chairs, and in the back part of the stage-boxes, ladies’ faces, almost green under paint, showed the excessive lassitude of a long winter of pleasure.  The Parisians had all come there from custom, without having the slightest desire to do so, just as they always came, like galley-slaves condemned to “first nights.”  They were so lifeless that they did not even feel the slightest horror at seeing one another grow old.  This chloroformed audience was afflicted with a long and too heavy programme, as is the custom in performances of this kind.  They played fragments of the best