“You know, my dear fellow,” said Moronval, as they strolled through the empty boulevards, arm-in-arm, that night, little Madame Moronval pattering on in front of them,—“you know if I can succeed in the establishment of my Review, that I shall make you editor-in-chief!”

Moronval threw the half of his cargo overboard in order to save his ship, for he saw that unless the poet was enlisted, the countess would take no interest in the scheme. D’Argenton made no reply, for he was absorbed in thoughts of Ida.

No man can play the part of a lyric poet, a martyr to love, without being conscious of, and touched by, that silent adoration which appeals to his vanity, both as a man of letters and a man of the world. Since he had seen Ida in her luxurious home, about which there was the same suspicion of vulgarity that clung about herself, the rigidity of his principles had amazingly softened.

CHAPTER VI.
AMAURY D’ARGENTON.

Amaury d’Argenton belonged to one of those ancient provincial families whose castles resembled great farms. Impoverished for the three last generations, they had finally sold their property, and come to Paris to seek their fortunes; with little change for the better, however; and for the last thirty years they had dropped the De, which Amaury ventured to resume on adopting his literary career. He meant to make it famous, and even was audacious enough to announce this intention aloud.

The childhood of the poet had been one of gloom and privation; surrounded by anxieties and by tears, by sordid cares, and that constant lack of money which imbitters the lives of so many of us, he had never laughed nor played like other children. A scholarship that was obtained for him enabled him to complete his studies, and his only recreation was obtained through the kindness of an aunt who resided in the Marais, and who gave him gloves and other trifles, which the poet very early in life learned to regard as essentials.

Such a childhood ripens early into bitter maturity. Infinite prosperity is needed to efface such early impressions, and we often see men who have attained to high honors, who are rich and powerful, and yet who have never conquered the timidity born of their early deprivations. D’Argenton’s bitterness was not without reason: at twenty-five he had succeeded in nothing; he had published a volume at his own expense, and had lived on bread and water in consequence for at least six months. He was industrious as well as ambitious; but something more than these qualities are essential to a poet, whose imagination and genius must be endowed with wings. These D’Argenton had not; he felt merely that vague uneasiness which indicates a missing limb, but that was all, and he lost both time and trouble in ineffectual efforts; his aunt aided him by a small allowance, but his life bore not the shadow of a resemblance to the picture drawn by Ida. In fact, D’Argenton had never been entangled in any serious love affair; his nature was cold and prudent, and yet he had been beloved by more than one woman. To D’Argenton, however, their society had always seemed a waste of time. Ida de Barancy was the first who had made upon him any real impression. Of this fact Ida had no idea, and whenever she met the poet on her very frequent visits to Jack, it was always with the same deprecating air and timid voice. The poet, while adopting an air of utter indifference, cultivated the affection and society of little Jack, whom he induced to talk freely of his mother.

Jack being extremely flattered, gladly gave every information in his power, and talked freely of the kind friend who was so good to mamma. The mention of this person cost the poet a strange pang. “He is so kind,” babbled Jack, “he comes to see us every day; or, if he does not come, he sends us great baskets of fruit, and playthings for me.”

“And is your mother very fond of him, too?” continued D’Argenton, without looking up from his writing.

“Yes, indeed, sir,” answered the little fellow, innocently.