d twenty
francs in all, and now he had just a hundred and twenty francs in hand.

"Your story is mine, monsieur, and the story of ten or twelve hundred
young fellows besides who come from the country to Paris every year.
There are others even worse off than we are. Do you see that theatre?"
he continued, indicating the turrets of the Odeon. "There came one day
to lodge in one of the houses in the square a man of talent who had
fallen into the lowest depths of poverty. He was married, in addition
to the misfortunes which we share with him, to a wife whom he loved; and
the poorer or the richer, as you will, by two children. He was burdened
with debt, but he put his faith in his pen. He took a comedy in five
acts to the Odeon; the comedy was accepted, the management arranged to
bring it out, the actors learned their parts, the stage manager urged on
the rehearsals. Five several bits of luck, five dramas to be performed
in real life, and far harder tasks than the writing of a five-act play.
The poor author lodged in a garret; you can see the place from here. He
drained his last resources to live until the first representation; his
wife pawned her clothes, they all lived on dry bread. On the day of the
final rehearsal, the household owed fifty francs in the Quarter to the
baker, the milkwoman, and the porter. The author had only the strictly
necessary clothes--a coat, a shirt, trousers, a waistcoat, and a pair of
boots. He felt sure of his success; he kissed his wife. The end of their
troubles was at hand. 'At last! There is nothing against us now,'
cried he.--'Yes, there is fire,' said his wife; 'look, the Odeon is on
fire!'--The Odeon was on fire, monsieur. So do not you complain. You
have clothes, you have neither wife nor child, you have a hundred and
twenty francs for emergencies in your pocket, and you owe no one a
penny.--Well, the piece went through a hundred and fifty representations
at the Theatre Louvois. The King allowed the author a pension. 'Genius
is patience,' as Buffon said. And patience after all is a man's nearest
approach to Nature's processes of creation. What is Art, monsieur, but
Nature concentrated?"

By this time the young men were striding along the walks of the
Luxembourg, and in no long time Lucien learned the name of the stranger
who was doing his best to administer comfort. That name has since grown
famous. Daniel d'Arthez is one of the most illustrious of living men
of letters; one of the rare