Parisian Newspaper-Men [pp. 123-128]

-1PPLETONS' JO URNAL.
than business management, which makes a successful Parisian newspaper, renders the newspaper writer's money-rewards liberal in every grade. An editor-in-chief will often receive a salary of ten thousand or twelve thousand dollars in gold - figures
very rarely reached on American journals; and, not
to name the fact that greenbacks are not gold, it is
to be borne in mind that the cost of living in Paris
is much smaller than in any of the large cities of this
country. Nor is this liberality of payment confined
to the chief editors, but reaches every grade of newspaper-work with its fair proprtions. Moreover, an
editor there-even a managing editor-is not confined to his own special journal, but writes for as
many others as he chooses, receiving payment by the
column, at from ten to one hundred dollars in gold,
and even more, according to his celebrity and his
ability.
The editor of the Figaro is M. Hippolyte de Villemessant, and his name is perhaps better known in
Paris than that of any other editor there. It is not
his real name, by-the-way; he came into the world
with the humble patronymic of Cartier, and, besides
being born poor and obscure, he is said to have been
an illegitimate son. He came to Paris from one of the
provinces, with empty pockets, but a brilliant store
of wit and readiness. After various ups and downs
in the journalistic way, he at last struck the rich-paying mine of the Figaro, and is now extremely wealthy.
He owns a winter palace on the aristocratic Promenade des Anglais, in Nice-a delightful abode, almost as fairy-like as the mythical palace pictured by
Claude Melizotte to Pauline in Bulwer's play. Regal
marble staircases lead from his broad grounds down
to the blue waters of the Mediterranean; architectural art has lavished its splendors on the wide-reaching halls and climbing roofs of the enchanted palace; and the air is heavy with the odors of an orange-grove in bloom. He has also a villa at Etretat,
one of the most famous seaside resorts of the French
coast, and a town-house in Paris. But the most
convincing illustration of M. Villemessant's prodigious wealth (according to those best acquainted
with his earlier life in the capital) is found in the
fact that he has recently advertised far and wide for
all persons to whom he may have become indebted
in his days of poverty, to present their claims and
get them liquidated.
See him as he enters the cafe where we are sitting, to drink his before-dinner appetizer, and talk
with his fellows about the news in the evening editions, which are on the streets about five o'clock in
the afternoon. He becomes at once the centre of
an obsequious circle of admirers of his class, for he
is a most important man among them. His aspect
is less aristocratic than that of M. de Pine, though
he is also at heart a Legitimist, in spite of his own
humble origin-or perhaps because of it. He is a
thick-set, bullet-headed man, with a ferocious black
mustache and strong but well-kept hands, and he
dresses with care and neatness. His paper is the
New York Sun of Paris —if one may compare a
French journal at all with an American; and few
things could be more dissimilar. But the Figaro is
like the Sun in many respects which make it as peculiar among its contemporaries as the New York
journal is among its. It does not trouble itself
much with its dignity; it is bitter in its personalities; saucy in its comments; spicy and readable
from the first line to the last and has the largest
local circulation of any newspaper in the citynamely, about sixty thousand daily. Everybody
reads it, admires it, laughs at it, flings it aside-after
reading it through-and takes pains to avoid treading on its mercurial editor's toes. It ranks among
its contributors the sharpest, wittiest, and ablest
men in the capital: for it bids high for contributions, and does not restrict its contributors too curiously. The prime virtue it demands in its writers is readableness. It is not afraid-as almost
all American newspapers are, with the conspicuous exception of the Sun-that an advertisement
will be smuggled into its reading-matter under the
disguise of a "good thing." It wants the "good
thing," no matter who profits by the advertisement.
Many of the leading minds of France contribute
surreptitiously to the Figaro-among them Alexandre Duinmas, fils - a circumstance not generally
known, even among Frenchmen, but which chance
brought to my knowledge while residing in Paris.
An experience which could not possibly have been
known to any persons but Dumas and myself, occurring late one evening at my house, was detailed at
length in next morning's Figaro; Dumas must have
driven from my presence straight to the Figaro office
with the news.
Here comes a man whose name is familiar to
American readers-not because he is a journalist,
however, but because he is a novelist. A well-kept
Parisian man of the world, close upon fifty years of
age, but looking like a person of forty, with a piquant smile, expressive gray eyes, and a full, blond
beard, Edmond About would attract attention anywhere as a man of mark. He has been editor of
numerous newspapers in Paris-among them that
journal which all who have been to the Paris theatres have heard noisily hawked by mature newsboys
between the acts, Le Soir. As its name implies, Le
Soir is an evening newspaper, and it is a prosperous
one; a fact perhaps partly due to the tripping way in
which its name drops from a Frenchman's tongue. It
is no light point in the make-up of an evening newspaper that its name should be a good one for the
newsboys to hawk. The journal of which M. About
is now the editor-the XIXieme Siecle-has not this
merit, certainly. It is not a difficult name to pronounce, if one has leisure and calmness for it; but
for an excited newsboy it is an awkward mouthful.
As editor of le Soir, About received a salary of
twelve thousand dollars gold, and, as his removal to
the editorial chair of the XIXitme Sihcle must be
looked upon in the light of a promotion, it is probable his present salary is still larger. In addition,
he draws a large salary from the London Athenwum
as its Paris correspondent, and writes for other journals in France, besides turning off a novel from time
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