nce to reckon upon the
gratification of their tastes. They were not mistaken. The moment his
second contribution to "Figaro" appeared, it became evident to all that
he had taken this warlike position at the advanced posts of light
literature solely to shoot at those persons who had wounded his vanity.
For three months he kept up such a sharp fire that every week numbered
its dead. Such carnage had never been seen. Everybody was severely
wounded: Jules Janin, Paulin Limayrac, Champfleury, Barbey d'Aurevilly,
and a host of others. Everybody said, (a thrill of terror ran through
them as they spoke,)--There is going to be one of these mornings a
terrible butchery: that imprudent Edmond About will have at least ten
duels on his hands. Not a bit of it! Not a bit of it! There were
negotiations, embassies, explanations exchanged which explained nothing,
and reparations made which repaired nothing. But there was not a shot
fired. There was not a drop of blood drawn. O Lord! no! Third parties
intervened, and demonstrated to the offended parties, that, when
Monsieur Edmond About called them stupid boobies, humbugs, tumblers, he
had no intention whatever of offending them. Good gracious! far
otherwise! In fine, one day the farce was played, the curtain fell upon
the well-spanked critics, and all this little company (so full of
talents and chivalry!) went arm-in-arm, the insulter and the insulted,
to breakfast together at Monsieur About's rooms, where, between a dozen
oysters and a bottle of Sauterne, he asked his victims what they thought
of some Titians he had just discovered, and which he wished to sell to
the Louvre for a small fortune,--Titians which were not painted even by
Mignard. The insulter and the insulted fell into each other's arms
before these daubs, and they parted, each delighted with the other.
These pseudo-Titians were for Monsieur About his Alcibiades's
dog's-tail. He spent one every month. Literary, picturesque, romanesque,
historical, agricultural, Greek, and Roman questions were never subjects
to him: he considered them merely advertisements to puff the
transcendent merits of Edmond About. Before he left "Figaro" he
determined to show me what a grateful fellow he was. He made me the mark
for all his epigrams, and I paid the price of peace with the others. I
have heard, since then, that Monsieur Edmond About has made his way
rapidly in the world. He is rich. He has the ribbon of the Legion of
Honor. He excels in