writing pamphlets. He is not afraid of the most
startling truths. He writes about the Pope like a man who is not afraid
of the spiritual powers, and he has demonstrated that Prince Napoleon
won the Battle of the Alma and organized Algeria.

* * * * *

Among the numerous details of my grandeur and my decline, none exhibit
in a clearer light our literary manners and customs than the history of
my relations with Monsieur Louis Ulbach, the virtuous author, _now_, of
"L'Homme aux Cinq Louis d'Or," "Suzanne Duchemin," "Monsieur et Madame
Fernel," and other tales, which he hopes to see crowned by the French
Academy. Monsieur Louis Ulbach at first belonged to a triumvirate which
pretended to stand above the mob of democratic writers; and of a truth
Monsieur Maxime du Camp and Monsieur Laurent Pichat, his two leaders,
had none of those smoking-_cafe_ vulgarities which have procured so many
subscribers to the "Siecle" newspaper. Both poets, Laurent Pichat with
remarkable loftiness, Maxime du Camp with _bizarre_ energy, intent upon
an ideal which democracy has a right to pursue, since it has not yet
found it, men of the world, capable of discussing in full dress the most
perplexed questions of Socialism, they accept none of those party-chains
which so often bow down the noblest minds before idols made of plaster
or of clay. Besides, both of them were known by admirable acts of
generosity. There were in this triumvirate such dashes of aristocracy
and of revolution that they were called "the Poles of literature."

Of course, when the storm burst which I had raised by my irreverent
attacks on De Beranger, these gentlemen separated from their political
friends, and complimented me. One of them even addressed me a letter, in
which I read these words, which assuredly I would not have written:
"That stupid De Beranger." There was a sort of alliance between us.
Monsieur Louis Ulbach celebrated it by publishing in his magazine, "La
Revue de Paris," an article in my honor, in which, after the usual
reserves, and after declaring war upon my doctrines, he vowed my prose
to be "fascinating," and complained of being so bewitched as to believe,
at times, that he was converted to the cause of the throne and of the
altar. This epithet, "fascinating," in turn fascinated me; and I thought
that my prose was, like some serpent, about to fascinate all the
butcher-birds and ducks of the democratic marsh. A year passed aw