“As to the newspaper line, the Deuce is in it! that is quite another pair of shoes. God above us! what a deal of piping those good people take before they have learned a new tune. I have got no more than sixty-two Mouvements so far; and that in my whole journey is less than the Ternaux shawls in one town. These rascally Republicans won’t subscribe at all; you talk to them, and they talk; they are quite of your way of thinking, and you soon are all agreed to upset everything that exists. Do you think the man will fork out? Not a bit of it. And if he has three square inches of ground, enough to grow a dozen cabbages, or wood enough to cut a toothpick, your man will talk of the settlement of landed estate, of taxation, and crops, and compensation—a pack of nonsense, while I waste my time and spittle in patriotism. Business is bad, and the Mouvement generally is dull. I am writing to the owners to say so. And I am very sorry as a matter of opinion.
“As to the Globe, that is another story. If I talk of the new doctrines to men who seem likely to have a leaning to such quirks, you might think it was a proposal to burn their house down. I tell them it is the coming thing, the most advantageous to their interests, the principle of work by which nothing is lost;—that men have oppressed men long enough, that woman is a slave, that we must strive to secure the triumph of the great Idea of thrift, and achieve a more rational coordination of Society—in short, all the rhodomontade at my command. All in vain! As soon as I start on this subject, these country louts shut up their cupboards as if I had come to steal something, and beg me to be off.
“What fools these owls are! The Globe is nowhere.—I told them so. I said, ‘You are too advanced. You are getting forward, and that is all very well; but you must have something to show. In the provinces they want to see results.’ However, I have got a hundred Globes; and, seeing the density of these country noodles, it is really a miracle. But I promise them such a heap of fine things, that be hanged if I know how the Globules, or Globists, or Globites, or Globians are ever going to give them. However, as they assured me that they would arrange the world far better than it is arranged at present, I lead the way and prophesy good things at ten francs per head.
“There is a farmer who thought it must have to do with soils, by reason of the name, and I rammed the Globe down his throat; he will take to it, I feel sure; he has a prominent forehead, and men with prominent foreheads are always ideologists.
“But as to the Children! give me the Children. I got two thousand Children between Paris and Blois—a nice little turn! And there is less waste of words. You show the picture to the mother on the sly, so that the child wants to see; then, of course, the child sees; and he tugs at mamma’s skirts till he gets his paper, because ‘Daddy has hisn paper.’ Mamma’s gown cost twenty francs, and she does not want it torn by the brat; the paper costs but six francs, that is cheaper; so the subscription is dragged out. It is a capital, and meets a real want—something between the sugarplum and the picture-book, the two eternal cravings of childhood. And they can read, too, these frenzied brats.
“Here, at the table d’hôte, I had a dispute about newspapers and my opinions. I was sitting, peacefully eating, by the side of a man in a white hat who was reading the Débats. Said I to myself, ‘I must give him a taste of my eloquence. Here is a man who is all for the dynasty; I must try to catch him. Such a triumph would be a splendid forecast of success as a Minister.’ So I set to work, beginning by praising his paper. It was a precious long job, I can tell you. From one thing to another I began to overrule my man, giving him four-horse speeches, arguments in F sharp, and all the precious rhodomontade. Everybody was listening, and I saw a man with July in his moustaches, ready to bite for the Mouvement. But, by ill-luck, I don’t know how I let slip the word ganache (old woman). Away went my dynastic white hat—and a bad hat too, a Lyons hat, half silk and half cotton—with the bit between his teeth in a fury. So I put on my grand air—you know it—and I say to him, ‘Heyday, monsieur, you are a hot pot! If you are vexed, I am ready to answer for my words. I fought in July—’—‘Though I am the father of a family,’ says he, ‘I am ready—’—‘You are the father of a family, my dear sir,’ say I. You have children?’—‘Yes, monsieur!’—‘Of eleven?’—‘Thereabouts.’—‘Well, then, monsieur, The Children’s Magazine is just about to be published—six francs per annum, one number a month, two columns, contributors of the highest literary rank, got up in the best style, good paper, illustrations from drawings by our first artists, genuine India paper proofs, and colors that will not fade.’ And then I give him a broadside. The father is overpowered! The squabble ends in a subscription.
“ ‘No one but Gaudissart can play that game,’ cried little tomtit Laniard to that long noodle Bulot when he told him the story at the café.
“Tomorrow
