ty woman, it is another story. Laniboire
becomes jocose, and Ripault-Babin, still gallant in spite of his eighty
years, offers the fair canvasser a lozenge, and says in his quavering
voice, 'Touch it with your lips, and I will finish it.' So they told
me in the secretary's office, where the deities are discussed with a
pleasing frankness. 'You are in for the Boisseau prize. Let me see; you
have for awarders two Dukes, three Mouldies, and two Players.' Such, in
the office, is the familiar classification of the Academie Francaise!
'Duke' is the name applied to all members of the nobility and
episcopacy; Mouldies' includes the professors and the learned men
generally; while a 'Player' denotes a lawyer, dramatic author,
journalist, or novelist.

After ascertaining the addresses of my Dukes, Mouldies, and Players, I
gave one of my 'author's copies' to the friendly M. Picheral, and,
for form's sake, left another for poor M. Loisillon, the Permanent
Secretary, who is said to be all but dead. Then I set to work to
distribute the remaining copies all over Paris. The weather was
glorious. As I passed through the Bois de Boulogne on my way back from
the house of Ripault-Babin (which reminded me of the lozenges), the
place was sweet with may and violets. I almost fancied myself at home
again on one of those first days of early spring when the air is fresh
and the sun hot; and I was inclined to give up everything and come back
to you at Jallanges. Dined on the boulevard alone and gloomy, and then
spent the rest of my evening at the Comedie Francaise, where they were
playing Desminieres' '_Le Dernier Frontin_.' Desminieres is one of the
awarders of the Boisseau prize, so I shall tell no one but you how his
verses bored me. The heat and gas gave me a headache. The actors
played as if Louis XIV. had been listening; and while they spouted
alexandrines, suggestive of the unrolling of a mummy's bands, I was
still haunted by the scent of the hawthorn at Jallanges, and repeated
to myself the pretty lines of Du Bellay, a fellow-countryman, or a
neighbour at least:

More than your marbles hard I love the tender slate,
Than Tiber more the Loire, and France than Rome,
Mine own dear hills than Palatinus' state,
More than the salt sea breeze the fragrantair of home.

_Tuesday_.--Walked about the town all the morning, stopping in front
of the booksellers' shops to look for my book in the windows. _Satyra,
Satyra, Sa