I am not dissatisfied.

I think that I have made some progress; but if you knew how hard and difficult it is!" He was about to confide to Jocquelet the doubts and sufferings of a sincere artist, but Jocquelet, as we have said, thought only of himself, and brusquely interrupted the young poet: "You do not happen to have a poem with you--something short, a hundred or a hundred and fifty lines--a poem intended for effect, that one could recite ?" Amedee had copied out that very day, at the office, a war story, a heroic episode of Sebastopol that he had heard Colonel Lantz relate not long since at Madame Roger's, and had put into verse with a good French sentiment and quite the military spirit, verse which savored of powder, and went off like reports of musketry.

He took the sheets out of his pocket, and, leading the comedian into a solitary by-path of sycamores which skirted the Luxembourg orangery, he read his poem to him in a low voice.

Jocquelet, who did not lack a certain literary instinct, was very enthusiastic, for he foresaw a success for himself, and said to the poet: "You read those verses just like a poet, that is, very badly.

But no matter, this battle is very effective, and I see what I could do with it-with my voice.