We must ask pardon of the public for offering it this[5]book, and give it due warning of what it will findtherein.
The public loves fictitious novels! this is a true novel.
It loves books which make a pretence of introducingtheir readers to fashionable society: this book dealswith the life of the street.
It loves little indecent books, memoirs of courtesans,alcove confessions, erotic obscenity, the scandal tuckedaway in pictures in a bookseller's shop window: thatwhich is contained in the following pages is rigidlyclean and pure. Do not expect the photograph ofPleasure décolletée: the following study is the clinic ofLove.
Again, the public loves to read pleasant, soothingstories, adventures that end happily, imaginative worksthat disturb neither its digestion nor its peace of mind:this book furnishes entertainment of a melancholy, violentsort calculated to disarrange the habits and injurethe health of the public.[6]
Why then have we written it? For no other purposethan to annoy the public and offend its tastes?
By no means.
Living as we do in the nineteenth century, in an ageof universal suffrage, of democracy, of liberalism, weasked ourselves the question whether what are called"the lower classes" had no rights in the novel; if thatworld beneath a world, the common people, must needsremain subject to the literary interdict, and helplessagainst the contempt of authors who have hithertosaid no word to imply that the common people possessa heart and soul. We asked ourselves whether, in thesedays of equality in which we liv