To make matters worse, Papillard had stopped working; De Nani had frozen him. De Nani he felt to be the cause of all his misfortunes, and he only continued to exist—so he told himself—that he might witness De Nani’s downfall.
You may imagine, then, how pleased he felt when, on the morning after the same showery day that drenched Célestin, Pelisson appeared in his rooms before eight o’clock, and pulled up his blinds.
“Wake up! I want Adam Froissart’s address,” cried Pelisson, standing over the poet, and poking him with his stick to rouse him.
“Froissart!” cried Gaillard, rubbing his eyes. “He is not in Paris.”
Froissart was a spiteful genius who possessed the unsavory humor of Papillard. No one had ever seen him, and his sole title to consideration lay in three malevolent articles leveled against De Brie and his political tendencies. They had been submitted to Pelisson by Gaillard, and so had found their way into the _Débats_. Pelisson, who noted down everything, had made a memorandum of this gentleman’s abilities. De Brie had done likewise, and though he hated this unknown journalist, he would have given a good deal to secure him as a member of his staff. He had expressed the desire in the hearing of Gaillard, and he might have obtained his wish, only that Froissart’s genius for malevolence was useless when expended against anyone else than De Brie.
Needless to say, there was no Froissart. He belonged to the shadowy band that included Fanfoullard, Mirmillard, Papillard, Églantine, and Angélique.
“This is a great nuisance,” grumbled Pelisson, rubbing his chin.
“I am going to sack De Nani, and I want a man to take his place.”
“But, my dear Pierre, why seek for Froissart? Are there not plenty of men of ability in Paris to take the place of this silly old villain of a De Nani?”
“Hundreds, but no use to me. I don’t want one of your bright diamonds—I want a man in the rough; I don’t want an editor—I want a creature, a clever one, too, now: for, upon my soul, I am becoming exhausted between keeping _Pantin_ and De Nani going at the same time. You said this Froissart was poor.”
“But I believe he has an aunt who is very rich, and I heard she was dying some little time ago. I would not seek Froissart, Pierre; believe me, he is a very acid man, and quite unfit for an editor. If you want the sort of person you say you want, why not try me? I will do whatever you wish, and write whatever you wish.”