This amiable comrade’s words easily dissipated the painful feelings that Amedee had just experienced.  However, it was one of those exalted moments when one will not admit that evil exists.  He spent some time with the poets, forcing himself to be more gracious and friendly than ever, and left them persuaded—­the unsuspecting child!—­that he had disarmed them by his modesty; and very impatient to share his joy with his friends, the Gerards, he quickly walked the length of Montmartre and reached them just at their dinner hour.

They did not expect him, and only had for their dinner the remains of the boiled beef of the night before, with some cucumbers.  Amedee carried his cake, as usual, and, what was better still, two sauces that always make the poorest meal palatable—­hope and happiness.

They had already read the journals and knew that the poem had been applauded at the Gaite, and that it had at once been printed on the first page of the journal; and they were all so pleased, so glad, that they kissed Amedee on both cheeks.  Mamma Gerard remembered that she had a few bottles—­five or six—­of old chambertin in the cellar, and you could not have prevented the excellent woman from taking her key and taper at once, and going for those old bottles covered with cobwebs and dust, that they might drink to the health of the triumphant one.  As to Louise, she was radiant, for in several houses where she gave lessons she had heard them talk of the fine and admirable verses published in Le Tapage, and she was very proud to think that the author was a friend of hers.  What completed Amedee’s pleasure was that for the first time Maria seemed to be interested in his poem, and said several times to him, with such a pretty, vain little air: 

“Do you know, your battle is very nice.  Amedee, you are going to become a great poet, a celebrated man!  What a superb future you have before you!”

Ah! what exquisitely sweet hopes he carried away that evening to his room in the Faubourg St.-Jacques!  They gave him beautiful dreams, and pervaded his thoughts the next morning when the concierge brought him two letters.

Still more happiness!  The first letter contained two notes of a hundred francs each, with Victor Gaillard’s card, who congratulated Amedee anew and asked him to write something for his journal in the way of prose; a story, or anything he liked.  The young poet gave a cry of joyful surprise when he recognized the handwriting of Maurice Roger upon the other envelope.

“I have just returned to Paris, my dear Amedee,” wrote the traveller, “and your success was my first greeting.  I must embrace you quickly and tell you how happy I am.  Come to see me at four o’clock in my den in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.  We will dine and pass the evening together.”