At the end of that time I received a peremptory note
inviting me to call at their office. When I presented myself I was
shown into a bare, square room, where an august little man was
standing, using a silver toothpick. He was short, with a large-sized
lower chest; bald, with a short, grey beard cut to a sharp point;
waxed moustache ends, sticking out ferociously; and brown eyes, keen
with intelligence. He bowed elaborately.
I could speak French, he supposed.
I assented, and the conversation then went on very fast.
Monsieur's works had been read by their Anglo-French reader and
highly approved. There was no doubt that Monsieur possessed a
talent, a talent that he would say was--colossal. At the same time,
these works were all too English in tone to catch the taste of the
Parisian world, and Monsieur had seemed to put a restraint upon his
pen, that rendered his works a touch too cold.
Great heavens! how I raised my eyebrows at that; remembering that in
England I had been always rejected on account of being too warm.
Now, his proposition was this:--If Monsieur felt disposed to write a
manuscript, in which the scene should be laid in France, and some of
the characters, at least, be French, and also allow himself a little
greater latitude, then he should be delighted to put the manuscript
in the hands of their very best translator, and give it out to an
audience that, above all things, admired vigour.
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