It exhibits in full light a good many scenes of literary
life in Paris. They may be and probably are exaggerated, but
exaggerations do not mar truth; if they did, we should be obliged to
throw away the microscope, with nativities and divining-rods. We are
tempted to give our readers a share of the pleasure we have found in
perusing this picture of Paris life. We forewarn them that we have taken
liberties innumerable with the book. We have compressed into these few
leaves a volume of several hundred pages. We have discarded all the
machinery of the author, and introduced him personally to the reader in
the character of an autobiographer. We have not scrupled to make
explanations and additions wherever we thought them necessary, without
resorting to the artifice of notes or of quotation-marks. We repeat,
that we have taken a great many liberties with the author; but we have
made no statement, advanced no fact, indulged no reflection, which is
not to be found in the work referred to, or in some trustworthy
authority. And now we leave him the door without another observation.
I am Count Armand de Pontmartin.
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