to myself, 'if I could at the least command a name in the world of
letters! that at least would be fame, and fame is happiness.' The
confidant of my sorrow was an old servant, an aged negro, who had lived
in the chateau for years before I was born; he was the oldest person
about the house, for no one remembered when he came to live there; and
some of the country people said that he knew the Marshal Fabert, and had
been present at his death'--

My host saw me express the greatest surprise; he interrupted his
narrative to ask me what was the matter.

'Nothing,' said I; but I could not help thinking of the black man the
innkeeper had mentioned the evening before.

Monsieur de C---- went on with his story: 'One day, before Juba (such
was the negro's name), I loudly expressed my despair at my obscurity and
the uselessness of my life, and I exclaimed: '_I would give ten years of
my life_ to be placed in the first rank of our authors.' 'Ten years,' he
coldly replied to me, 'are a great deal; it's paying dearly for a
trifle; but that's nothing, I accept your ten years. I take them now;
remember your promises: I shall keep mine!' I cannot depict to you my
surprise at hearing him speak in this way. I thought years had weakened
his reason; I smiled, and he shrugged his shoulders, and in a few days
afterward I quitted the chateau to pay a visit to Paris. There I was
thrown a great deal in literary society. Their example encouraged me,
and I published several works, whose success I shall not weary you by
describing. All Paris applauded me; the newspapers proclaimed my
praises; the new name I had assumed became celebrated, and no later than
yesterday, you, yourself, my young friend, admired me.'

A new gesture of surprise again interrupted his narrative: 'What! you
are not the Duke de C----?' I exclaimed.

'No,' said he very coldly.

'And,' I said to myself, 'a celebrated literary man! Is it Marmontel? or
D'Alembert? or Voltaire?'

He sighed; a smile of regret and of contempt flitted over his lips, and
he resumed his story: 'This literary reputation I had desired soon
became insufficient for a soul as ardent as my own. I longed for nobler
success, and I said to Juba, who had followed me to Paris, and who now
remained with me: 'There is no real glory, no true fame, but that
acquired in the profession of arms. What is a literary man? A poet?
Nothing. But a great captain, a leader of an army! Ah! that's the
destiny I desire; an