t.-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!

Maurice is more attractive and gracious than ever. His beauty is more
manly, and his golden moustache glistens against his sun-browned skin.
What a fine fellow! How he rejoiced at his friend's first success!

"I am certain that your book will turn everybody's head. I always told
you that you were a genuine poet. We shall see!"

As to himself, he was happy too. His mother had let him off from studying
law and allowed him to follow his vocation. He was going to have a studio
and paint. It had all been decided in Italy, where Madame Roger had
witnessed her son's enthusiasm over the great masters. Ah, Italy! Italy!
and he began to tell of his trip, show knickknacks and souvenirs of all
kinds that littered the room. He turned in his hands, that he might show
all its outlines, a little terra-cotta reduction of the Antinous in the
Museum of Nap