print Jocquelet's name, treat him sympathetically and conspicuously, and
are full of his praises. "He is good to his old aunt," "gives alms,"
"picked up a lost dog in the street the other evening." An artist such
as he, who stamps immortality on all the comic repertory, and takes
Moliere under his wing, has no time to go to visit friends, that is
understood. However, he still honors Maurice Roger with short visits.
He only has time to make all the knickknacks and china on the sideboard
tremble with the noise of his terrible voice; only time to tell how, on
the night before, in the greenroom, when still clothed in Scapin's
striped cloak, he deigned to receive, with the coldest dignity, the
compliments of a Royal Highness, or some other person of high rank. A
prominent society lady has been dying of love for him the past six
months; she occupies stage box Number Six--and then off he goes. Good
riddance!

Amedee enjoys himself in his friend's studio, where gay and witty artists
come to talk. They laugh and amuse themselves, and this Sunday resting-
place is the most agreeable of the hard-working poet's recreations.
Amedee prolongs them as long as possible, until at last he is alone with
his friend; then the young men stretch themselves out upon the Turkish
cushions, and they talk freely of their hopes, ambitions, and dreams for
the future.

Amedee, however, keeps one secret to himself; he never has told of his
love for Maria Gerard. Upon his return from Italy the traveller inquired
several times for the Gerards, sympathized politely with their
misfortune, and wished to be remembered to them through Amedee. The
latter had been very reserved in his replies, and Maurice no longer
broaches the subject in their conversation. Is it through neglect?
After all, he hardly knew the ladies; still, Amedee is not sorry to talk