CHAPTER VI.
THEODORE TRIST IS AROUSED.
In a quiet street leading out of the Boulevard de la Madeleine, there is a large red-stone house with golden letters, each the size of a man, between the windows of the second and third floors. These letters spell a three-syllabled word, which is known in all the civilized world as the name of the greatest journal in France. For steadiness there is no newspaper in all the new republic to rival it. No false news was ever published within the walls of that red-stone house, nor sent forth to the French-speaking world from its portals. Its correspondence is conducted with that apparent lavishness which is the secret of successful journalism in these days. Good pay to good men is a motto that might well be inscribed in golden letters beneath the window of the second floor. There is upon the first story of this house a large room furnished somewhat in the style adopted by English clubs. That is to say, the chairs, tables, and bookcases are of a heavier type than is usually found in private houses. Unlike most French rooms the floor is entirely covered with a Brussels carpet. There are several small oak tables furnished with blotting-pad, inkstand, and pen-tray. I regret to say that cigarette-ash and cigarette ends are habitually thrown upon the floor, although numerous receptacles are provided on the larger table standing in the centre of the room.
This apartment serves as an anteroom to the offices of the editor and sub-editor, and on some days in the week there may be seen an assembly of all that there is of journalistic and literary talent in France.
One evening in January, Theodore Trist was standing near the huge white-china stove talking with a group of long-haired confrères of the ready pen. They were laughing—not in that airy, careless way which is generally considered by Englishmen as the prerogative of their Gallic cousins—but softly, and without much genuine amusement. There were others in the room, seated at the smaller tables, writing, which would account for the lowered tones of the group round the stove.
Presently a liveried servant came towards them.
'Monsieur Trist,' he ventured, standing at a respectful distance from the brilliant group.
A silence fell over the talkers, while Theo Trist turned and asked by whom he was wanted.
'It is,' replied the servant, 'a portier of the Hôtel Bristol, inquiring if monsieur was in Paris at present.'
'And you said...?'
'I said that I would inquire.'