The Slave of the Lamp | Page 4

criticism that the _dénouement_ in "The Sowers" was re-written as it now stands, the scene of the attack on the Castle being at first wholly different.
The jealousy and bitterness which are supposed to be inseparable from the literary life certainly never affected Merriman's. He had no trace of such feelings in his nature. Of one who is known to the public exclusively through his writings, it may seem strange--but it is not the less true--to say that his natural bent was not to the life of a literary man, but to a life of action, and that it was fate, rather than inclination, which made him express himself in words instead of deeds. A writer's books are generally his best biography: the "strong, quiet man," whose forte was to do much and say nothing; who, like Marcos Sarrion, loved the free and plain life of the field and the open, was a natural hero for Merriman, "as finding there unconsciously some image of himself."
To any other biography he was strongly opposed. His dislike of the advertisement and the self-advertisement of the interview and the personal paragraph deepened with time. He held strongly and consistently, as he held all his opinions, that a writer should be known to the public by his books, and by his books only. One of his last expressed wishes was that there should be no record of his private life.
It is respect for that wish which here stays the present writers' pen.
E.F.S. S.G.T. July 1909.

CONTENTS
CHAPTERS
I. IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE II. TOOLS III. WITHOUT REST IV. BURDENED V. A REUNION VI. BROKEN THREADS VII. PUPPETS VIII. FALSE METAL IX. A CLUE X. ON THE SCENT XI. BURY BLUFF XII. A WARNING WORD XIII. A NIGHT WATCH XIV. FOILED XV. ROOKS XVI. FOES XVII. A RETREAT XVIII. AN EMPTY NEST XIX. FOUL PLAY XX. WINGED XXI. TRUE TO HIS CLOTH XXII. GREEK AND GREEK XXIII. STRICKEN DOWN XXIV. BACK TO LIFE XXV. BACK TO WORK XXVI. SIGNOR BRUNO XXVII. IN THE RUE ST GINGOLPHE AGAIN XXVIII. THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT
CHAPTER I
IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE
It was, not so many years ago, called the Rue de l'Empire, but republics are proverbially sensitive. Once they are established they become morbidly desirous of obliterating a past wherein no republic flourished. The street is therefore dedicated to St. Gingolphe to-day. To-morrow? Who can tell?
It is presumably safe to take it for granted that you are located in the neighbourhood of the Louvre, on the north side of the river which is so unimportant a factor to Paris. For all good Englishmen have been, or hope in the near future to be, located near this spot. All good Americans, we are told, relegate the sojourn to a more distant future.
The bridge to cross is that of the Holy Fathers. So called to-day. Once upon a time--but no matter. Bridges are peculiarly liable to change in troubled times. The Rue St. Gingolphe is situated between the Boulevard St. Germain and Quai Voltaire. One hears with equal facility the low-toned boom of the steamers' whistle upon the river, and the crack of whips in the boulevard. Once across the bridge, turn to the right, and go along the Quay, between the lime-trees and the bookstalls. You will probably go slowly because of the bookstalls. No one worth talking to could help doing so. Then turn to the left, and after a few paces you will find upon your right hand the Rue St. Gingolphe. It is noted in the Directory "Botot" that this street is one hundred and forty-five mètres long; and who would care to contradict "Botot," or even to throw the faintest shadow of a doubt upon his statement? He has probably measured.
If your fair and economical spouse should think of repairing to the Bon-Marché to secure some of those wonderful linen pillow-cases (at one franc forty) with your august initial embroidered on the centre with a view of impressing the sleeper's cheek, she will pass the end of the Rue St. Gingolphe on her way--provided the cabman be honest. There! You cannot help finding it now.
The street itself is a typical Parisian street of one hundred and forty-five mètres. There is room for a baker's, a café, a bootmaker's, and a tobacconist who sells very few stamps. The Parisians do not write many letters. They say they have not time. But the tobacconist makes up for the meanness of his contribution to the inland revenue of one department by a generous aid to the other. He sells a vast number of cigarettes and cigars of the very worst quality. And it is upon the worst quality that the Government makes the largest profit. It is in every sense of the word a weed which grows as lustily as any of