Not so Jules; he established himself in a cheap corner of the Pays Latin, and spent his days conning over the various journals of Paris, until, by dint of acute study and penetration, he had possessed himself of every shade and hue of political opinion professed by each. At last he discovered that the “Siècle” was the most decidedly obnoxious to the Government, and the “Moniteur” most favourable to the newly projected system. To each he sent an article: in one, setting forth a dim, but suggestive idea, of what the Minister might possibly attempt, with a terrific denunciation annexed to it; in the other, a half defence of the plan, supported by statistic detail, and based on the information of the manuscript.
These two papers both appeared, as assertion and rejoinder; and so did the polemic continue for above a week, increasing each day in interest, and gradually swelling in the number of the facts adduced, and the reasons for which the opinion was entertained. Considerable interest was created to know the writer, but although he was then dining each day, and that his only meal, for four sous in the “Ilee St. Louis,” he preserved his incognito unbroken, and never divulged to any one his secret. At last came an announcement in the “Siècle,” at the close of one of the articles, that on the next day would appear a full disclosure of the whole government measure, with the mechanism by which its views were to be strengthened, and the whole plan of conception on which it was based. That same evening a young man, pale, and sickly looking, stood at the porte-cochere of a splendid mansion in the Rue St. George, and asked to see the owner. The rude repulse of the porter did not abash him, nor did the insolent glance bestowed on his ragged shoes and threadbare coat cost him a pang of displeasure: he felt that he could bide his time, for it would come at last.
“His Excellency is at the Council!” at last said the porter, somewhat moved by a pertinacity that had nothing of rudeness in it.
With a calm resolve he sat down on a stone bench, and fell a-thinking to himself. It was full three hours later when the Minister’s carriage rolled in, and the Minister, hastily descending, proceeded to mount the stairs.
“One word, your Excellency,” cried Jules, in a voice collected and firm, but still of an almost imploring sound.
“Not now—at another time,” said the Minister, as he took some papers from his secretary.
“But one word, Sir—I crave no more,” repeated Jules.
“See to that man, Delpierre,” said the Minister to his secretary; but Jules, passing hastily forward, came close to the Minister, and whispered in his ear, “M. le Ministre, je suis Octave,” the name under which the “Siècle” articles appeared. A few words followed, and Jules was ordered to follow the Minister to his cabinet. The article of the “Siècle” did appear the next day, but miserably inefficient in point of ability; and so false in fact-, that the refutation was overwhelming. The “Moniteur” had a complete triumph, only to be exceeded by that of the Minister’s own in the Chamber. The Council of Ministers was in ecstasy, and Jules de Russigny, who arrived in Paris by the mail from Orleans—for thither he was despatched, to make a more suitable entry into the great world—was installed as a clerk in the office of the Finance Minister, with very reasonable hopes of future advancement. Such was the fortune of him who was one, and, I repeat it, the pleasantest of our convives.
This is the age of smart men—not of high intelligences. The race is not for the thoroughbred, but the clever hackney, always “ready for his work,” and if seldom pre-eminent, never a dead failure.
Of my own brief experience, all the first-rate men, without exception, have broke down. All the moderates—the “clever fellows”—have carried the day. Now I could pick out from my contemporaries, at school and university, some half-dozen brilliant, really great capacities, quite lost—some, shipwrecked on the first venture in life—some, disheartened and disgusted, have retired early from the contest, to live unheard of and die brokenhearted. But the smart men! What crowds of them come before my mind in high employ—some at home, some abroad, some waxing rich by tens of thousands, some running high up the ambitious road of honours and titles! There is something in inordinate self-esteem that buoys up this kind of man. It is the only enthusiasm he is capable of feeling—-but it serves as well as the “real article.”