inst publishers, magazine-editors,
theatre-managers, anxious negotiations, an immense loss of time, an
incredible wear-and-tear of brain, annoyances and cares enough to put
every thought to flight and to dry every source of inspiration and of
poetry. Remember that Henry Murger is one of the luckiest of the new men
who have appeared within these last fifteen years, for he received the
cross of the Legion of Honor, which, as everybody knows, is never given
except to men who deserve it. Judge, then, what the others
must be! Judge what must be the abortions, the disdained, the
supernumeraries,--those who sleep in lodging-houses at two cents a
night, or who eat their pitiful dinner outside the barrier-gate in a
wretched eating-house patronized by hack-drivers,--those who kill
themselves with charcoal, or who hang themselves, murdered by madness or
by hunger, the two pale goddesses of atheistical literatures!

"Well," said I to Henry Murger, after we were once more seated in our
carriage, "are you pleased with Monsieur Buloz?"

"Yes--and no. The most difficult step is taken. He allows me to
contribute my masterpieces to the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' and I shall
never forget the immense service you have done me. Although you and I do
not serve the same literary gods, I am henceforward yours to the death!
But--the book-keeper is deusedly hard on trigger. Will you believe it? I
asked him to advance me forty dollars, and he refused!"

We parted excellent friends, and he continued to assure me of his
gratitude, until the carriage stopped at my door.

Years passed away. Henry Murger's promised novel was long coming to the
"Revue des Deux Mondes." At last it came; another followed eighteen
months afterwards; then he contributed a third. He displayed
unquestionable talents; he commanded moderate success. He had been told
by so many people that it was a hard matter to please the readers of the
"Revue des Deux Mondes," that it was necessary for him to free himself
from all his studios' fun, and everything tinctured with the petty
press, that he really believed for true everything he heard, and
appeared awkward in his movements. His students, his _grisettes_, and
his young artists were all on their good behavior, but were not more
droll. Marivaux had come down one more flight of stairs. Alfred de
Musset had steeped the powder and the patches in a glass of Champagne
wine. Henry Murger soaked them in a bottle of brandy or in a flagon of