And he tossed it lightly on the table.
“Good!” exclaimed Paul Zouche; “Give it to me, and I will cherish it as a kind of birthday card! What a rag it is! ‘Thord’s Rabble’ eh! Sergius, what have you been doing that this little flea of an editor should jump out of his ink-pot and bite you? Does he hurt much?”
“Hurt!” Thord laughed aloud. “If I had money enough to pay the man ten golden coins a week where his present employer gives him five, he would dance to any tune I whistled!”
“Is that so?” asked Leroy, with interest.
“Do you not know that it is so?” rejoined Thord. “You tell me you write Socialistic works—you should know something concerning the press.”
“Ah!” said Max Graub, nodding his head sagely, “He does know much, but not all! It would need more penetration than even he possesses, to know all! Alas!—my friend was never a popular writer!”
“Like myself!” exclaimed Zouche, “I am not popular, and I never shall be. But I know how to make myself reputed as a great genius, and all the very respectable literary men are beginning to recognize me as such. Do you know why?”
“Because you drink more than is good for you, my poor Zouche!” said Lotys tranquilly; “That is one reason!”
“Hear her!” cried Zouche,—“Does she not always, like the Sphinx, propound enigmas! Lotys,—little, domineering Lotys, why in the name of Heaven should I secure recognition as a poet, through drunkenness?”
“Because your vice kills your genius,” said Lotys; “Therefore you are quite safe! If you were less of a scamp you would be a great man,—perhaps the greatest in the country! That would never do! Your rivals would never forgive you! But you are a hopeless rascal, incapable of winning much honour; and so you are compassionately recognized as somebody who might do something if he only would—that is all, my Zouche! You are an excellent after-dinner topic with those who are more successful than yourself; and that is the only fame you will ever win, believe me!”