CHAPTER II.
Nearly two years ago Durtal had ceased to associate with men of letters.
They were represented in books and in the book-chat columns of magazines as forming an aristocracy which had a monopoly on intelligence.

Their conversation, if one believed what one read, sparkled with effervescent and stimulating wit.

Durtal had difficulty accounting to himself for the persistence of this illusion.

His sad experience led him to believe that every literary man belonged to one of two classes, the thoroughly commercial or the utterly impossible.
The first consisted of writers spoiled by the public, and drained dry in consequence, but "successful." Ravenous for notice they aped the ways of the world of big business, delighted in gala dinners, gave formal evening parties, spoke of copyrights, sales, and long run plays, and made great display of wealth.
The second consisted of cafe loafers, "bohemians." Rolling on the benches, gorged with beer they feigned an exaggerated modesty and at the same time cried their wares, aired their genius, and abused their betters.
There was now no place where one could meet a few artists and privately, intimately, discuss ideas at ease.

One was at the mercy of the cafe crowd or the drawing-room company.