"Make another failure like that," said Emile Blondet, "and you'll be
immortal."

But instead of continuing in that difficult path, Nathan had fallen,
out of sheer necessity, into the powder and patches of
eighteenth-century vaudeville, costume plays, and the reproduction,
scenically, of successful novels.

Nevertheless, he passed for a great mind which had not said its last
word. He had, moreover, attempted permanent literature, having
published three novels, not to speak of several others which he kept
in press like fish in a tank. One of these three books, the first
(like that of many writers who can only make one real trip into
literature), had obtained a very brilliant success. This work,
imprudently placed in the front rank, this really artistic work he was
never weary of calling the finest book of the period, the novel of the
century.

Raoul complained bitterly of the exigencies of art. He was one of
those who contributed most to bring all created work, pictures,
statues, books, building under the single standard of Art. He had
begun his career by committing a volume of verse, which won him a
place in the pleiades of living poets; among these verses was a
nebulous poem that was greatly admired. Forced by want of means to
keep on producing, he went from the theatre to the press, and from the
press to the theatre, dissipating and scattering his talent, but
believing always in his vein. His fame was therefore not unpublished
like that of so many great minds in extremity, who sustain themselves
only by the thought of work to be done.