“Were I but capable—”
“You are eminently so. We need no literary ability, no craft of authorship,—no more than the child who picks the wool in the factory is called on to direct the loom that weaves it into cloth. Let me finish the article; I 'II give it the gloss for sale! What say you? Five thousand francs a year, free admission to every theatre in Paris, and a dinner at 'La Trou aux Bois '—where you dined yesterday—every Sunday?”
“A bargain,” cried I, in ecstasy.
“Concluded by both parties, who thus acknowledge their hand and seal,” cried he, tossing off a glass of champagne; and then, rising from the table, he prepared to take his leave. “I conclude,” said he, “that you 'll not continue your residence here much longer. Seek out some quarter less near to heaven, and more accessible to poor human nature.”
I promised to follow the advice, and we separated: he to repair to his haunts,—the cafés, the editorial snuggeries, and other gossip shops of Paris; and I to seek out a more congenial abode, and one more befitting the favorable turn which Fate had now imparted to my fortune.
The afternoon of that same day saw me installed in a pleasant little apartment overlooking the garden of the Luxembourg, and where, from a little terrace, I could inhale the odor of the orange blossoms, and see the children at play amid the plashing of fountains and the waving of the tall grass. It was, as I discovered, the quarter of the whole artiste class,—poets, painters, actors, sculptors, feuilletonists, and caricaturists; nor was it difficult to ascertain the fact, as a certain extravagance of beard, various modifications of hat, and peculiarly cut coats and trousers presented themselves at every moment. Resolving to don “the livery of my race,” I made my appearance in a suit of coffee-brown, hat and russet boots to match; as for beard, a life of seclusion for several weeks had only left me the task of retrenchment; and the barber whose services I invoked had but to ask my career to impress me with that artiste stamp that makes every full-faced man a mock “Holbein,” and every thin one a bad Vandyke.
“The novelists wear it straight across, and square below the chin, sir,” said he. “This is a plate of Monsieur Eugène Sue; but there is a certain dash of energy about Monsieur's eyes—a kind of 'beauté insolente,' if I may be pardoned the phrase—that would warrant the beard to be pointed. May I venture to trim Monsieur as Salvator Rosa?”
“Use your own discretion, Monsieur Palmyre,” said I; “the responsibility is great, and I will not clog it by even a suggestion.”
To say that I could not have known myself on arising from his hands is no exaggeration, so perfectly changed had my features become in their expression. As a disguise, it was perfect; and this alone was no small recommendation.
As I walked the alleys of the Luxembourg, where at every instant men travestied like myself came and went, I could not help recalling the classical assertion that “no two augurs could meet face to face without laughing,” and I wondered excessively how we artistes surveyed each other and preserved even a decent gravity.