One large, very common-looking man, wearing superb diamond shirt-buttons, came in his turn to shake Amedee’s hand, and in a hoarse, husky voice which would have been excellent to propose tickets “cheaper than at the office!” he asked for the manuscript of the poem that had just been recited.

“It is so that I may put you upon the first page of my tomorrow’s edition, young man, and I publish eighty thousand.  Victor Gaillard, editor of ‘Le Tapage’.  Does that please you?”

He took the manuscript without listening to the thanks of the poet, who trembled with joy at the thought that his work had caught the fancy of this Barnum of the press, the foremost advertiser in France and Europe, and that his verses would meet the eyes of two hundred thousand readers.

Yes, it was certainly a success, and he experienced the first bitterness of it as soon as he arrived the next morning at the Cafe de Seville, where he now went every two or three days at the hour for absinthe.  His verses had appeared in that morning’s Tapage, printed in large type and headed by a few lines of praise written by Victor Gaillard, a la Barnum.  As soon as Amedee entered the cafe he saw that he was the object of general attention, and the lyric gentlemen greeted him with acclamations and bravos; but at certain expressions of countenance, constrained looks, and bitter smiles, the impressionable young man felt with a sudden sadness that they already envied him.

“I warned you of it,” said Paul Sillery to him, as he led him into a corner of the cafe.  “Our good friends are not pleased, and that is very natural.  The greater part of these rhymers are ‘cheap jewellers,’ and they are jealous of a master workman.  Above all things, pretend not to notice it; they will never forgive you for guessing their bad sentiments.  And then you must be indulgent to them.  You have your beautiful lieutenant’s epaulettes, Violette, do not be too hard upon these poor privates.  They also are fighting under the poetic flag, and ours is a poverty-stricken regiment.  Now you must profit by your good luck.  Here you are, celebrated in forty-eight hours.  Do you see, even the political people look at you with curiosity, although a poet in the estimation of these austere persons is an inferior and useless being.  It is all they will do to accept Victor Hugo, and only on account of his ‘Chatiments.’  You are the lion of the day.  Lose no time.  I met just now upon the boulevard Massif, the publisher.  He had read ‘Le Tapage’ and expects you.  Carry him all your poems to-morrow; there will be enough to make a volume.  Massif will publish it at his own expense, and you will appear before the public in one month.  You never will inveigle a second time that big booby of a Gaillard, who took a mere passing fancy for you.  But no matter!  I know your book, and it will be a success.  You are launched.  Forward, march!  Truly, I am better than I thought, for your success gives me pleasure.”