"My dear," exclaimed Pitou with emotion, "would I add to your
anxieties? Rather than you should be disturbed by anybody's living, let
us dismiss the subject, and the dinner, and talk of my new Symphony. On
the other hand, I fail to see that the paper's reputation is your
affair--it is not your wife; and I am more than usually empty to-day."

"Your argument is sound," said de Fronsac. "Besides, the Editor refuses
my poetry." And he wrote without cessation for ten minutes.

The two-franc table-d'hote excelled itself that evening, and Pitou did
ample justice to the menu.

Behold how capricious is the jade, Fame! The poet whose verses had left
him obscure, accomplished in ten minutes a paragraph that fascinated
all Paris. On the morrow people pointed it out to one another; the
morning after, other journals referred to it; in the afternoon the
Editor of _La Voix Parisienne_ was importuned with questions. No
one believed the story to be true, but not a soul could help wondering
if it might be so.

When a day or two had passed, Pitou received from de Fronsac a note
which ran:

"Send to me at once, I entreat thee, the name of that girl, and say
where she can be found. The managers of three variety theatres of the
first class have sought me out and are eager to engage her."

"Decidedly," said Pitou, "I have mistaken my vocation--I ought to have
been a novelist!" And he replied: