uccess. At the office the head clerk--a good
fellow, who sang well at dinners--complimented Amedee upon his poem. The
young man had only made his appearance to ask for leave that afternoon,
so as to take his manuscript to the publisher.

Once more in the street in the bright May sun, after the fashion of
nabobs, he took an open carriage and was carried to Massif, in the
Passage des Princes. The editor of the Jeunes was seated in his office,
which was decorated with etchings and beautiful bindings. He is well
known by his magnificent black beard and his large bald head, upon
which a wicked jester once advised him to paste his advertisements; he
publishes the works of audacious authors and sensational books, and had
the honor of sharing with Charles Bazile, the poet, an imprisonment
at St.-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