a house in town for the winter and give parties,
like Dalzon, Moser, and all my competitors. Do, do take care of yourself
and get well.

To go back to my dinner party. There was naturally much talk of the
Academie, its elections and duties, its merits and demerits in public
estimation. The 'deities' hold that those who run down the institution
are all, without exception, poor creatures who cannot get in. For the
strong apparent instances to the contrary, there was a reason in each
case. I ventured to mention the great name of Balzac, a man from our
country. But the playwright Desminieres, who used to manage the amateur
theatricals at Compiegne, burst out with 'Balzac! But did you know him?
Do you know, sir, the sort of man he was? An utter Bohemian! A man, sir,
who never had a guinea in his pocket! I had it from his friend Frederic
Lemaitre. Never one guinea! And you would have had the Academie----'
Here old Jean Rehu, having his trumpet to his ear, got the notion that
we were talking of 'tallies,' and told us the fine story of his friend
Suard coming to the Academie on January 21, 1793, the day the king was
executed, and availing himself of the absence of his colleagues to sweep
off the whole fees for the meeting.

He tells a story well, does the old gentleman, and but for his deafness
would be a brilliant talker. When I gave his health, with a few
complimentary verses on his marvellous youth, the old fellow in a
gracious reply called me his dear colleague. My master Astier corrected
him--'future colleague.' Laughter and applause. 'Future colleague' was
the title which they all gave me as they said goodbye, shaking my hand
with a significant pressure, and adding, 'We shall meet before long,' or
'See you soon,' in reference to my expected call. It is not a pleasant
process, paying these calls, but everyone goes through it. Astier-Rehu
told me, as we came away from the dinner, that when he was elected old
Dufaure let him come ten times without seeing him. Well, he would not
give up, and the eleventh time the door was thrown open. Nothing like
persistence.

In truth, if Ripault-Babin or Loisillon died (they are both in danger,
but even now I have most hopes of Ripault-Babin), my only serious
competitor would be Dalzon. He has talent and wealth, stands well with
the 'dukes,' and his cellar is capital; the only thing against him is a
youthful peccadillo lately discovered, 'Without the Veil,' a poem of 600
lines printed