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man who really loves; he is the lover. I have the sensibility of a real artist, while he achieves works and reaps the glory of them. Meanwhile I am 鏉窞瓒崇枟搴楁瑙勫悧 wasting a very clear morning and my picture is at a standstill. Ah, I shall soon be back and I will send for Malvina. I will work all the afternoon, I will make up for lost time. Directly my commission is executed I will hurry away. I am rather curious to see how the animal is lodged.鏉窞鍝噷鏈夌壒鑹茶冻娴? He must be making just now from 80,000 to 100,000 francs a year, and it is a great change from his former position.鈥?

It was a long time since

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I had called upon my old friend. While the lift-man whisked me up to the second floor, where he lived, of a large new house with bow windows of 鏉窞妗戞嬁淇℃伅缃?coloured glass, I recalled the numerous quarters where I had known this author, who was such a clever administrator of his wealth and talents, and ran over in my mind his rapid 86advance along the highway of Parisan glory. First of all on leaving college he had a little furnished 鏉窞澶滅敓娲讳竴鏉¤ room in the Rue Monsieur le Prince. A portrait of Baudelaire by F茅licien Rops and a few bad medallions by David constituted the personal furniture of this retreat. The fastidious arrangement of the books, papers and pens on the table already testified to the worker鈥檚 strong will.

Jacques鈥?only 鏉窞鎸夋懇濂藉湴鏂?resource then was a small income of 150 francs a month allowed him by his only relative, an

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old grandmother, who lived in the Provinces, and to whom he behaved like a grateful grandson. I saw him weep real tears when she died, and then he put her into a book. Strange 鏉窞瓒虫荡娌瑰帇鎵撻鏈?to say, that was the only one of his books which was really bad. Could it be that talent of writing is only nourished by imaginative sensibility, which, to be realized, has need of expression, whereas real sensibility exhausts itself and comes to an end through its own reality?鏉窞灏忎斧澶磋冻娴存瑙勫悧 Happily for him, in the early years of his literary life he only depicted sentiments which he had not. His first volume, so elegant and yet so brutal, was, strange to say, scrawled in this Latin Quarter garret. His joining the staff of a Boulevard paper and a change of residence showed that the 鏉窞娲楁荡灏忓鎬ф伅 writer did not intend to vegetate in the same narrow circle. He took rooms in the Rue de Bellechasse still on the left bank of the river, but now very close to the right bank. The portrait of Baudelaire still remained, to proclaim his fidelity to his early artistic 鏉窞姘寸枟spa鍏荤敓convictions; but now it was framed in velvet and hung 87upon red Adrianople tapestry, which gave to this retreat an air of a padded shelter. This counter-balanced the lack of artistic character in the furniture, which was on the hire system and very solid and commonplace, without any 鏉窞姘寸(澶氬皯閽?other pretension than the quality of its old oak. The noted trader in literary wares, which Molan was, betrayed himself by his choice of durable furniture and a well made desk never likely to need repair. His success still increased, and the period of the little house at Passy came, though 鏉窞榫欏嚖璁哄潧vipdirectly afterwards the house became unsuitable.

Jacques had not been there eighteen months when the opulent and final a