Boccacio. My remark pleases him, but I soon prove to him that it is not
the right way to speak, however perfect may have been the language of
that ancient writer. In less than a quarter of an hour we are excellent
friends, for we find that our tastes are the same.

My new friend was a poet as I was; he was an admirer of Italian
literature, while I admired the French.

We exchanged addresses, and promise to see one another very often.

I see a crowd in one corner of the garden, everybody standing still and
looking up. I enquire from my friend whether there is anything wonderful
going on.

"These persons are watching the meridian; everyone holds his watch in his
hand in order to regulate it exactly at noon."

"Is there not a meridian everywhere?"

"Yes, but the meridian of the Palais-Royal is the most exact."

I laugh heartily.

"Why do you laugh?"

"Because it is impossible for all meridians not to be the same. That is
true 'badauderie'."

My friend looks at me for a moment, then he laughs likewise, and supplies
me with ample food to ridicule the worthy Parisians. We leave the