e hymns of poets and the tears of women made enviable
their obsequies. I say it: what a noble, what a heroic thing
is youth! What flames divine escape from young bosoms to rise
to the Creator! I admire above everything young folk who throw
themselves into ventures of war and sentiment with the impetuosity
natural to their age."

Tasso, Novara, and the _diva_ so beloved of cardinals mingled
confusedly in Jean Servien's heated brain, and in a burst of
sublime if fuddled enthusiasm he wrung the old villain's hand.
Everything had grown indistinct; he seemed to be swimming in
an element of molten metal.

Monsieur Tudesco, who at the moment was imbibing a glass of kuemmel,
pointed to his waistcoat of ticking.

"The misfortune is," he observed, "that I am garbed like a
philosopher. How show myself in such a costume among elegant
females? 'Tis a sad pity! for it would be an easy matter for
me to pay my respects to an actress at an important theatre. I
have translated the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, that masterpiece
of Torquato Tasso's. I could propose to the great actress whom
you love and who is worthy of your love, at least I hope so, a
French adaptation of the _Myrrha_ of the celebrated Alfieri.
What eloquence, what fire in that tragedy! The part of Myrrha
is sublime and terrible; she will be eager to play it. Meantime,
you translate _Myrrha_ into French verse; then I introduce you
with your manuscript into the sanctuary of Melpomene, when you
bring with you a double gift--fame and love! What a dream, oh!
fortunate young man!... But alas! 'tis but a dream, for how should
I enter a lady's boudoir in this rude and sordid guise?"

But the tavern was closing and they had to leave. Jean felt so
giddy in the open air he could not tell how he had come to lose
Monsieur Tudesco, after emptying the contents of his purse into
the latter's hand.

He wandered about all night in the rain, stumbling through the
puddles which splashed up the mud in his face. His brains buzzed
with the maddest schemes, that took shape, jostled one another,
and tumbled to pieces in his head. Sometimes he would stop to
wipe the sweat from his forehead, then start off again on his
wild way. Fatigue calmed his nerves, and a clear purpose emerged.
He went straight to the house where the actress lived, and from
the street gazed up at her dark, shuttered windows; then, stepping
up to the _porte-cochere_, he kissed the great doors.

XIII

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