ow!"

"I had eight different horses, and I was almost jolted to death."

"You are an excellent fellow! And you rested yourself when you arrived
there!"

"Rested! Oh! of course I did, for I had an immense deal of work to do."

"How so?"

"My wife had been flirting with the man to whom I wished to sell the
land. The fellow drew back from his bargain, and so I challenged him."

"Very good; and you fought?"

"It seems not."

"You know nothing about it, I suppose?"

"No, my wife and her relations interfered in the matter. I was kept a
quarter of an hour with my sword in my hand; but I was not wounded."

"And your adversary?"

"Oh! he just as much, for he never came on to the field."

"Capital!" cried his friends from all sides: "you must have been
terribly angry."

"Exceedingly so; I had caught cold; I returned home, and then my wife
began to quarrel with me."

"In real earnest?"

"Yes, in real earnest; she threw a loaf of bread at my head, a large
loaf."

"And what did you do?"

"Oh! I upset the table over her and her guests; and then I got upon my
horse again, and here I am."

Every one had great difficulty in keeping his countenance at the
exposure of his heroi-comedy, and when the laughter had somewhat ceased,
one of the guests present said to him:

"Is that all you have brought us back?"

"Oh, no! I have an excellent idea in my head."

"What is it?"

"Have you noticed that there is a good deal of sportive, jesting poetry
written in France?"

"Yes, of course," replied every one.

"And," pursued La Fontaine, "only a very small portion of it is
printed."

"The laws are strict, you know."

"That may be, but a rare article is a dear article, and that is the
reason why I have written a small poem, excessively free in its style,
very broad, and extremely cynical in its tone."

"The deuce you have!"

"Yes," continued the poet, with cold indifference; "and I have
introduced in it the greatest freedom of language I could possibly
employ."

Peals of laughter again broke forth, while the poet was thus announcing
the quality of his wares.

"And," he continued, "I have tried to exceed everything that Boccaccio,
Aretin, and other masters of their craft, have written in the same
style."

"Its fate is clear," said Pellisson; "it will be scouted and forbidden."

"Do you think so?" said La Fontaine simply; "I assure you, I did not do
it on my own account so much as on M. Fouquet's."

This wo