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gesture--" "I know a newspaper editor," Lousteau went on, addressing Gatien, "who, anxious to forefend a grievous fate, will take no stories but such as tell the tale of lovers burned, hewn, pounded, or cut to pieces; of wives boiled, fried, or baked; he takes them to his wife to read, hoping that sheer fear will keep her faithful--satisfied with that humble alternative, poor man! 'You see, my dear, to what the smallest error may lead you!' says he, epitomizing Arnolfe's address to Agnes." "Madame de la Baudraye is quite guiltless; this youth sees double," said Bianchon. "Madame Piedefer seems to me far too pious to invite her daughter's lover to the Chateau d'Anzy. Madame de la Baudraye would have to hoodwink her mother, her husband, her maid, and her mother's maid; that is too much to do. I acquit her." "Well with more reason because her husband never 'quits her,' said Gatien, laughing at his own wit. "We can easily remember two or three stories that will make Dinah quake," said Lousteau. "Young man--and you too, Bianchon--let me beg you to maintain a stern demeanor; be thorough diplomatists, an easy manner without exaggeration, and watch the faces of the two criminals, you know, without seeming to do so--out of the corner of your eye, or in a glass, on the sly. This morning we will hunt the hare, this evening we will hunt the Public Prosecutor." The evening began with a triumph for Lousteau, who returned the album to the lady with this elegy written in it: SPLEEN You ask for verse from me, the feeble prey Of this self-seeking world, a waif and stray With none to whom to cling; From me--unhappy, purblind, hopeless devil! Who e'en in what is good see only evil In any earthly thing! This page, the pastime of a dame so fair, May not reflect the shadow of my care, For all things have their place. Of love, to ladies bright, the poet sings, Of joy, and balls, and dress, and dainty things-- Nay, or of God and Grace. It were a bitter jest to bid the pen Of one so worn with life, so hating men, Depict a scene of joy. Would you exult in sight to one born blind, Or--cruel! of a mother's love remind Some hapless orphan boy? When cold despair has gripped a heart still fond, When there is no young heart that will respond To it in love, the future is a lie. If there is none to weep when he is sad, And share his woe, a man were better dead!
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