ich, despite its humble form,
was neither more nor less than a summons made to Rodolphe to hear a
little work, the fruit of Barbemuche's vigils.

The poet saw himself caught. Curious, however, to learn the color of the
other's style, he bowed politely, assured him that he was enchanted,
that Carolus did not wait for him to finish the sentence. He ran to bolt
the door, and then took up a small memorandum book, the thinness of
which brought a smile of satisfaction to the poet's face.

"Is that the manuscript of your work?" he asked.

"No," replied Carolus. "It is the catalog of my manuscripts and I am
looking for the one which you will allow me to read you. Here it is:
'Don Lopez or Fatality No. 14.' It's on the third shelf," and he
proceeded to open a small closet in which Rodolphe perceived, with
terror, a great quantity of manuscripts. Carolus took out one of these,
shut the closet, and seated himself in front of the poet.

Rodolphe cast a glance at one of the four piles of elephant paper of
which the work was composed. "Come," said he to himself, "it's not in
verse, but it's called 'Don Lopez.'"

Carolus began to read:

"On a cold winter night, two cavaliers, enveloped in large cloaks, and
mounted on sluggish mules, were making their way side by side over one
of the roads which traverse the frightful solitudes of the Sierra
Morena."

"May the Lord have mercy on me!" ejaculated Rodolphe mentally.

Carolus continued to read his first chapter, written in the style above
throughout. Rodolphe listened vaguely, and tried to devise some means of
escape.

"There is the window, but it's fastened; and beside, we are in the
fourth story. Ah, now I understand all these precautions."

"What do you think of my first chapter?" asked Carolus. "Do not spare
any criticism, I beg of you."

Rodolphe thought he remembered having heard some scraps of philosophical
declamation upon suicide, put forth by the hero of the romance, Don
Lopez, to wit; so he replied at hazard:

"The grand figure of Don Lopez is conscientiously studied; it reminds me
of 'Savoyard Vicar's Confession of Faith;' the description of Don
Alvar's mule pleases me exceedingly; it is like a sketch of Gericault's.
There are good lines in the landscape; as to the thoughts, they are
seeds of Rousseau planted in the soil of Lesage. Only allow me to make
one observation: you use too many stops, and you work the word
henceforward too hard. It is a good word, and gi