It will be easily seen that all my narrative of myself met but little faith in such company. They unhesitatingly rejected the whole story of my wealth; and my future restoration to rank and riches used to be employed as a kind of synonym for the Greek calends. The worst of all this was, their disbelief infected even me, and I gradually began to look upon myself as an impostor. My hope—the guide-star that cheered me in many a dark and gloomy period—began to wane, and I felt that ere long all those aspirations which had spirited me on in life would lie cold and dead within me, and that my horizon, would extend no further than where each daily sun sunk to rest. To show any discontent with my walk, to evince in the slightest degree any misgivings that we of “La petite Presse” did not give laws to taste, morals, jurisprudence, and legislation, would have been high treason. To imply a doubt that we held in our hands, not alone the destinies of Paris, but of Europe,—of all civilization,—would have been a rank and outrageous heresy. Like the priest, the journalist can never unfrock himself. The mark of the ink, more tenacious than the blood on Lady Macbeth's fingers, will “never out.” What, then, could I do? For, wearied of my calling, I yearned for a little truth, for a new glimpse of reality, however short and fleeting.
Full of these thoughts, I repaired one morning to the Trou-aux-Bois, where fortunately I found my friend Paul alone,—at least, except three secretaries, to whom he was dictating by turns, he had no one with him! “Wait till I have finished this 'Attack of Wolves on a Caravan,'” said he, “and the 'Death of Jules de Tavanne by Poison,' and I 'm your man. Meanwhile, step into my study; there are masses of newspapers and letters which you can read freely.”
He did not detain me long. Apparently the wolves were weak, and soon beaten off, and the poison was strong, and soon did its work; for he joined me in less than half an hour.
My explanation was listened to patiently, and, what surprised me more, without astonishment. He saw nothing exaggerated or high-flown in the difficulties I started, and even went the length of confessing that many of my objections had occurred to his own mind. “But then,” said he, “what is to be done? If you turn soldier, are you always certain that you will concur in the justice of the cause for which you fight? Become a lawyer, and is not half your life passed in arraigning the right and defending the wrong? Try medicine; and where will be your 'practice' if you only prescribe for the really afflicted, and do not indulge the caprices and foster the complainings of the 'malade imaginaire '? As an apothecary, you would vend poisons; as an architect, you would devise jails and penitentiaries; and so to the end of the chapter. Optimism is just as impracticable as it is dangerous. Accept the world as you find it, not because it is the best, but because it is the only policy; and, above all, be slow in changing a career where you have met with success. The best proof that it suits you is, that the public think so.”
Being determined on my course, I now affected a desire to see life in some other form, and observe mankind under some other aspect. To this he assented freely, and, after a few moments' discussion, suddenly bethought him of a letter he had received that very morning. “You remember the Duc de St. Cloud, whom you met at dinner the first day you spent here?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, he was, as you are aware, ordered off to Africa, to take a high military command a few days after, and has not since returned to France. This day I have received a letter from him, asking me to recommend some one among my literary acquaintances to fill the office of his private secretary. You are exactly the man for the appointment. The duties are light, the pay liberal, the position agreeable in every way; and, in fact, for one who desires to see something of the world which the Boulevard du Gent and the Café de Paris cannot show him, the opportunity is first rate.”
The proposal overjoyed me! Had I been called on to invent a post for myself, this was exactly the thing I should have fancied. A campaign against the Arabs; the novelty of country, people, and events; a life of adventure, with a prince for my companion,—these were the very crowning desires of my ambition.
“I 'll write about it this very day: there will be a mail for Algiers made up this evening, and not a moment shall be lost in making the application.”
I could not express one half my gratitude for this opportune kindness; and when I again turned my steps toward Paris, my heart had regained the buoyant elasticity which had so often lifted me above all the troubled waves of life.