I was born of noble parents at Aix, in
Provence, in 1820. I was educated at Paris, but the first twelve years
after I left college were passed on my estate in the enjoyment of an
income of three thousand dollars a year. Belonging to a Legitimist
family, my principles forbade my serving the Orleans dynasty, and I
should scarcely have known how to satisfy that thirst for activity which
fevers youth, had I not for years burned with the ambition to acquire
literary fame. Circumstances conspired to thwart these literary schemes,
and it was not until I had reached my thirtieth year that I came to
Paris with a heart full of emotion and hope, a trunk full of
manuscripts, and some friends' addresses on my memorandum-book. Before I
had been a week in town they had introduced me to three or four editors
of newspapers or reviews, and to several publishers and theatrical
managers. In less than a fortnight I breakfasted alone at Cafe Bignon
with one of my favorite authors, the celebrated novelist, Monsieur Jules
Sandeau.[D] I was confounded with astonishment and gratitude that he
should allow me to sit at the same table and eat with him.
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