"My dear friend," said Mme. de la Baudraye, drawing a pile of
manuscript from beneath her sofa cushion, "will you pardon me in our
present straits for making a short story of something which you told
me a few weeks ago?"

"Anything is fair in these times. Have you not seen writers serving up
their own hearts to the public, or very often their mistress' hearts
when invention fails? We are coming to this, dear; we shall go in
quest of adventures, not so much for the pleasure of them as for the
sake of having the story to tell afterwards."

"After all, you and the Marquise de Rochefide have paid the rent, and
I do not think, from the way things are going here, that I ever pay
yours."

"Who knows? Perhaps the same good luck that befell Mme. de Rochefide
may come to you."

"Do you call it good luck to go back to one's husband?"

"No; only great luck. Come, I am listening."

And Mme. de la Baudraye read as follows:

"Scene--a splendid salon in the Rue de Chartres-du-Roule. One
of the most famous writers of the day discovered sitting on a
settee beside a very illustrious Marquise, with whom he is on