"All that may be very true;" said Savarin; "but M. Enguerrand is right.
The papers are evidently the work of a man of the world, and it is for
that reason that they have startled the public, and established the
success of 'Le Sens Commun.' But wait a week or two longer, Messieurs,
and then tell me what you think of a new _roman_ by a new writer, which
we shall announce in our impression to-morrow. I shall be disappointed,
indeed, if that does not charm you. No lack of eloquence and sentiment
there."

"I am rather tired of eloquence and sentiment," said Enguerrand. "Your
editor, Gustave Rameau, sickens me of them with his 'Starlit Meditations
in the Streets of Paris,' morbid imitations of Heine's enigmatical
'Evening Songs.' Your journal would be perfect if you could suppress the
editor."

"Suppress Gustave Rameau!" cried Bernard, the painter; "I adore his
poems, full of heart for poor suffering humanity."

"Suffering humanity so far as it is packed up in himself," said the
physician, dryly,--"and a great deal of the suffering is bile. But
_a propos_ of your new journal, Savarin, there is a paragraph in it
to-day which excites my curiosity. It says that the Vicomte de Mauleon
has arrived in Paris, after many years of foreign travel; and then,
referring modestly enough to the reputation for talent which he had
acquired in early youth, proceeds to indulge in a prophecy of the future
political career of a man who, if he have a grain of _sens common_, must
think that the less said about him the better. I remember him well; a
terrible _mauvais sujet_, but superbly handsome. There was a shocking
story about the jewels of a foreign duchess, which obliged him to leave