his election. He has adopted a tone and manners which I can hardly but
describe as reprehensible. The day before yesterday, at the Territorial,
he raised a commotion which you can hardly imagine. He was heard to
exclaim before the whole board: 'You have lied to me; you have robbed
me, and made me a robber as much as yourselves. Show me your books, you
set of rogues!' If he has treated Moessard in the same sort of fashion,
I am not surprised any longer that the latter should be taking his
revenge in his newspaper."

"But what does this article say?" asked M. Barreau. "Who is present that
has read it?"

Nobody answered. Several had tried to buy it, but in Paris scandal sells
like bread. At ten o'clock in the morning there was not a single copy
of the _Messenger_ left in the office. Then it occurred to one of my
nieces--a sharp girl, if ever there was one--to look in the pocket of
one of the numerous overcoats in the cloak-room, folded carefully in
large pigeon-holes. At the first which she examined:

"Here it is!" exclaimed the charming child with an air of triumph, as
she drew out a _Messenger_ crumpled in the folding like a paper that has
just been read.

"Here is another!" cried Tom Bois l'Hery, who was making a search on his
own account. A third overcoat, a third _Messenger_. And in every one the
same thing: pushed down to the bottom of a pocket, or with its titlepage
protruding, the newspaper was everywhere, just as its article must
have been in every memory; and one could imagine the Nabob up above
exchanging polite phrases with his guests, while they could have reeled
off by heart the atrocious things that had been printed about him. We
all laughed much at this idea; but we were anxious to make acquaintance
in our own turn with this curious article.

"Come, _pere_ Passajon, read it aloud to us."

It was the general desire, and I assented.

I don't know if you are like me, but when I read aloud I gargle my
throat with my voice; I introduce modulations and flourishes to such an
extent that I understand nothing of what I am saying, like those singers
to whom the sense of the words matters little, provided the notes be
true. The thing was entitled "The Boat of Flowers"--a sufficiently
complicated story, with Chinese names, about a very rich mandarin, who
had at one time in the past kept a "boat of flowers" moored quite at the
far end of the town near a barrier frequented by the soldiers. At the
end of the art