Ah! how the poet loved life that morning, how good and sweet it seemed to him!  Clothed in his best, he gayly descended the Rue St.-Jacques, where boxes of asparagus and strawberries perfumed the fruit-stalls, and went to the Boulevard St. Michel, where he purchased an elegant gray felt hat and a new cravat.  Then he went to the Cafe Voltaire, where he lunched.  He changed his second hundred-franc bill, so that he might feel, with the pleasure of a child, the beautiful louis d’or which he owed to his work and its success.  At the office the head clerk—­a good fellow, who sang well at dinners—­complimented Amedee upon his poem.  The young man had only made his appearance to ask for leave that afternoon, so as to take his manuscript to the publisher.

Once more in the street in the bright May sun, after the fashion of nabobs, he took an open carriage and was carried to Massif, in the Passage des Princes.  The editor of the Jeunes was seated in his office, which was decorated with etchings and beautiful bindings.  He is well known by his magnificent black beard and his large bald head, upon which a wicked jester once advised him to paste his advertisements; he publishes the works of audacious authors and sensational books, and had the honor of sharing with Charles Bazile, the poet, an imprisonment at St.-Pelagie.  He received this thin-faced rhymer coldly.  Amedee introduced himself, and at once there was a broad smile, a handshake, and a connoisseur’s greedy sniffling.  Then Massif opened the manuscript.

“Let us see!  Ah, yes, with margins and false titles we can make out two hundred and fifty pages.”

The business was settled quickly.  A sheet of stamped paper—­an agreement!  Massif will pay all the expenses of the first edition of one thousand, and if there is another edition—­and of course there will be!—­he will give him ten cents a copy.  Amedee signs without reading.  All that he asks is that the volume should be published without delay.

“Rest easy, my dear poet!  You will receive the first proofs in three days, and in one month it will appear.”

Was it possible?  Was Amedee not dreaming?  He, poor Violette’s son, the little office clerk—­his book would be published, and in a month!  Readers and unknown friends will be moved by his agitation, will suffer in his suspense; young people will love him and find an echo of their sentiments in his verses; women will dreamily repeat—­with one finger in his book—­some favorite verse that touches their hearts!  Ah! he must have a confidant in his joy, he must tell some true friend.

“Driver, take me to the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.”

He mounted, four steps at a time, the stairs leading to Maurice’s room.  The key is in the door.  He enters and finds the traveller there, standing in the midst of the disorder of open trunks.

“Maurice!”

“Amedee!”

What an embrace!  How long they stood hand in hand, looking at each other with happy smiles!