At that name, I started with surprise; the unknown paused and asked me the cause of my embarrassment.
“Nothing,” said I; but I could not help thinking that the black man must be the one spoken of by the old landlord of the “Armes de France” the previous evening.
M. de C—— continued:
“One day in Yago’s presence (that was the old negro’s name) I gave way to my feelings, bemoaned my obscurity, and bewailed my useless and monotonous life, and I cried aloud in my despair: ‘I would willingly give ten years of my life to be placed in the first rank of our authors!’
“‘Ten years,’ said Yago, coolly; ‘that is much, it is paying very dear for so little a thing; no matter, I accept your ten years; remember your promise, I will surely keep mine.’
“I can not describe to you my great surprise on hearing him speak thus. I believed that his mind had become enfeebled by the weight of years. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, and took no further notice of him. Some days afterward I left home for Paris. There I found myself launched into the society of men of letters; their example encouraged and stimulated me, and I soon published several works that were very successful, which I will not now describe. All Paris rushed to see me, the journals were filled with my praises. The new name I had taken became celebrated, and even recently, young man, you have admired my works.”
Here another gesture of surprise on my part interrupted this recital. “Then you are not the Duc de C——?” cried I.
“No,” replied he, coldly. And I asked myself: “A celebrated man of letters! Is this Marmontel? is it D’Alembert? is it Voltaire?”
The unknown sighed, a smile of regret and contempt spread over his lips, and he continued his recital.
“This literary reputation, which had seemed to me so desirable, soon failed to satisfy a soul so ardent as mine. I aspired to still higher successes, and I said to Yago (who had followed me to Paris and who kept close watch over me): ‘This is not real glory, there is no veritable renown but that which one acquires in the career of arms. What is an author, a poet? Nothing! Give me a great general, or a captain in the army! Behold the destiny that I desire, and for a great military reputation I would willingly give ten more years of my life.’