“And this of course you failed in,” said my friend, who rather felt this portion of my story less interesting than certain other and more stirring passages.
“On the contrary,” said I, “I succeeded perfectly. I not only discovered the banker in whose hands my family wealth was deposited, but established my claim most satisfactorily, and received a very large sum in gold, with bills to a high amount on various mercantile houses, besides leaving in his hands an important balance, for which I had no immediate necessity.” After a slight sketch of my Mexican progress,—very little embellished or exaggerated,—I narrated my voyage to Europe and my capture at Malaga exactly as they occurred, circumstantially recording every detail of name and date I could remember down to the very moment of my reaching Paris.
“One question more, my dear friend,” said M. Paul, after some fifty very searching interrogatories, as closely argued as the cross-examination of a counsel at law. “One question more, and I have done. I know you 'll not be offended at the liberty I am about to take,—nay, I feel you 'll be even gratified with my candor. Tell me frankly, as between man and man, is there one word of truth in all this, or is it not downright moonshine,—sheer invention from beginning to end?”
I started to my legs, my face crimson with anger, but, as suddenly recovering myself, said, “You were right, sir, to bespeak a degree of command over my feelings before you ventured upon this freedom, which if I cannot altogether pardon, yet I will not resent.”
“So it is true, then,” said he, with a degree of melancholy in his voice I could not fathom.
“Of course it is,” rejoined I.
“Sorry to hear it; deeply, sincerely sorry,—that's all,” replied he, in the self-same manner; “I cannot express to you one-half of my disappointment.”
“Sorrow! disappointment!” exclaimed I. “May I ask what possible interest you could have in supposing me to be an impostor and a cheat?”
“Hard names these,” said he, laughing, “but I will explain myself. If the story that you have just told me were fiction, I could give you three hundred francs a day to write feuilletons for the 'Débats.' If one-half of it were even invention, you 'd be worth two hundred on the 'Siècle' or the 'Presse;' say you stole the material, and you 'd still do admirably for the 'Mode.'
“Are you—so conversant with a hundred thousand things—ignorant that the grand principle of division of labor has extended itself from the common arts of manufacture to the operations of genius; and that, nowadays, no man would think of composing an entire work himself, any more than he would of turning mason, carpenter, slater, locksmith, and glazier, were he about to build a house? On the contrary, having fixed upon the site, and determined the proportions of his future edifice, he surrounds himself with competent and skilful hands in all the several walks of constructiveuess, reserving to himself that supervision and direction which could not be practicable were he engaged in actual labor. Thus is he a master-builder in fiction, selecting his artificers, storing his materials, apportioning the quantity, keenly watching the variations in public taste, and producing at last a mass and variety that no one brain—however fertile and assiduous—could be capable of. This,” said he, drawing himself up proudly, “this is my walk. By the aid of this discovery,—for it is mine, and mine only,—I am enabled to draw tears in the 'Débats,' and convulse with laughter in the 'Constitutionnel;' and while writing of the torrid zone in one journal, I have an Icelander as my hero in another. Men stare at the range of my knowledge of life under aspects so various and discordant; and well may they wonder, were I to draw upon my own unassisted faculties. But it is men like you, Cregan, I want,—shrewd, sharp, ready-witted dogs; quick to remark, and quicker to report. What say you, then, will you join my corps in the fiction-foundry over which I preside?”