found himself a father, and, after some years of hard privation, he
embarks in some little draper's business, hires a shop. If neither
sickness nor vice blocks his way--if he has prospered--there is the
sketch of this normal life.

And, in the first place, hail to that king of Parisian activity, to
whom time and space give way. Yes, hail to that being, composed of
saltpetre and gas, who makes children for France during his laborious
nights, and in the day multiplies his personality for the service,
glory, and pleasure of his fellow-citizens. This man solves the
problem of sufficing at once to his amiable wife, to his hearth, to
the _Constitutionnel_, to his office, to the National Guard, to the
opera, and to God; but, only in order that the _Constitutionnel_, his
office, the National Guard, the opera, his wife, and God may be
changed into coin. In fine, hail to an irreproachable pluralist. Up
every day at five o'clock, he traverses like a bird the space which
separates his dwelling from the Rue Montmartre. Let it blow or
thunder, rain or snow, he is at the _Constitutionnel_, and waits there
for the load of newspapers which he has undertaken to distribute. He
receives this political bread with eagerness, takes it, bears it away.
At nine o'clock he is in the bosom of his family, flings a jest to his
wife, snatches a loud kiss from her, gulps down a cup of coffee, or
scolds his children. At a quarter to ten he puts in an appearance at
the _Mairie_. There, stuck upon a stool, like a parrot on its perch,
warmed by Paris town, he registers until four o'clock, with never a
tear or a smile, the deaths and births of an entire district. The
sorrow, the happiness, of the parish flow beneath his pen--as the
essence of the _Constitutionnel_ traveled before upon his shoulders.
Nothing weighs upon him! He goes always straight before him, takes his
patriotism ready made from the newspaper, contradicts no one, shouts