On that, he departed disdainfully, not observing that in many places, where this ancient trick of commercial travellers was well understood, they were laughing behind his back. The evening of the day when the inauguration number containing the “profession of faith” appeared, Brigitte’s salon, although the day was not Sunday, was filled with visitors. Reconciled to la Peyrade, whom her brother had brought home to dinner, the old maid went so far as to tell him that, without flattery, she thought his leading article was a famous HIT. For that matter, all the guests as they arrived, reported that the public seemed enchanted with the first number of the new journal. The public! everybody knows what that is. To every man who launches a bit of writing into the world, the public consists of five or six intimates who cannot, without offending the author, avoid knowing something more or less of his lucubrations. “As for me!” cried Colleville, “I can truthfully declare that it is the first political article I ever read that didn’t send me to sleep.” “It is certain,” said Phellion, “that the leading article seems to me to be stamped with vigor joined to an atticism which we may seek in vain in the columns of the other public prints.” “Yes,” said Dutocq, “the matter is very well presented; and besides, there’s a turn of phrase, a clever diction, that doesn’t belong to everybody. However, we must wait and see how it keeps on. I fancy that to-morrow the ‘Echo de la Bievre’ will be strongly attacked by the other papers.” “Parbleu!” cried Thuillier, “that’s what we are hoping for; and if the government would only do us the favor to seize us--” “No, thank you,” said Fleury, whom Thuillier had also brought home to dinner, “I don’t want to enter upon those functions at first.” “Seized!” said Dutocq, “oh, you won’t be seized; but I think the ministerial journals will fire a broadside at you.” The next day Thuillier was at the office as early as eight o’clock, in order to be the first to receive that formidable salvo. After looking through every morning paper he was forced to admit that there was no more mention of the “Echo de la Bievre” than if it didn’t exist. When la Peyrade arrived he found his unhappy friend in a state of consternation. “Does that surprise you?” said the Provencal, tranquilly. “I let you enjoy yesterday your hopes of a hot engagement with the press; but I knew myself that in all probability there wouldn’t be the slightest mention of us in to-day’s papers. Against every paper which makes its debut with some distinction, there’s always a two weeks’, sometimes a two months’ conspiracy of silence.” “Conspiracy of silence!” echoed Thuillier, with admiration.