brated is
not the word."

"Modest!" cried D'Artagnan, transported, "he is modest!" Then, turning
towards the stranger, with a character of blunt _bonhomie_: "But tell
me at least the name of your works, monsieur; for you will please to
observe you have not told me your name, and I have been forced to divine
your genius."

"My name is Jupenet, monsieur," said the author.

"A fine name! a grand name! upon my honor; and I do not know why--pardon
me the mistake, if it be one--but surely I have heard that name
somewhere."

"I have made verses," said the poet, modestly.

"Ah! that is it, then; I have heard them read."

"A tragedy."

"I must have seen it played."

The poet blushed again, and said: "I do not think that can be the case,
for my verses have never been printed."

"Well, then, it must have been the tragedy which informed me of your
name."

"You are again mistaken, for MM. the comedians of the Hotel de
Bourgogne, would have nothing to do with it," said the poet, with a
smile, the receipt for which certain sorts of pride alone knew the
secret. D'Artagnan bit his lips. "Thus, then, you see, monsieur,"
continued the poet, "you are in error on my account, and that not being
at all known to you, you have never heard tell of me."

"Ah! that confounds me. That name, Jupenet, appears to me, nevertheless,
a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of MM.
Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier. I hope, monsieur, you will have the
goodness to repeat to me a part of your tragedy presently, by way of
dessert, for instance. That will be sugared roast meat,--_mordioux!_ Ah!
pardon me, monsieur, that was a little oath which escaped me, because
it is a habit with my lord and master. I sometimes allow myself to usurp
that little oath, as it seems in pretty good taste. I take this liberty
only in his absence, please to observe, for you may understand that in
his presence--but, in truth, monsieur, this cider is abominable; do you
not think so? And besides, the pot is of such an irregular shape it will
not stand on the table."

"Suppose we were to make it level?"

"To be sure; but with what?"

"With this knife."

"And the teal, with what shall we cut that up? Do you not, by chance,
mean to touch the teal?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then--"

"Wait."

And the poet rummaged in his pocket, and drew out a piece of brass,
oblong, quadrangular, about a line in thickness, and an inch and a half
in length. But sca