I concealed beneath my coat my small
manuscript, bound in green, containing my verses, my last hope; and
though wavering and uncertain in my design, I turned my steps towards
the house of a celebrated publisher whose name is associated with the
progress of literature and typography in France, Monsieur Didot. I was
first attracted to this name because M. Didot, independently of his
celebrity as a publisher, enjoyed at that time some reputation as an
author. He had published his own verses with all the elegance, pomp and
circumstance of a poet who could himself control the approving voice of
Fame.
When before M. Didot's door in the Rue Jacob, a door all papered with
illustrious names, a redoubled effort on my part was required to cross
the threshold, another to ascend the stairs, another still more violent
to ring at his door. But I saw the adored image of Julie encouraging
me, and her hand impelled me. I dared do anything.
I was politely received by M. Didot, a middle-aged man with a precise
and commercial air, whose speech was brief and plain as that of a man
who knows the value of minutes.
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