the man.

Listen: he was young, fervid, and an artist; his proposal was made
before they reached her doorstep, and she consented!

Their attachment was the talk of the town, and everybody waited to hear
that Pitou had killed himself. His name was widely known at last. But
weeks and months went by; Florozonde's protracted season came to an
end; and still he looked radiantly well. Pitou was the most unpopular
man in Paris.

In the rue Dauphine, one day, he met de Fronsac.

"So you are still alive!" snarled the poet.

"Never better," declared Pitou. "It turns out," he added
confidentially, "there was nothing in that story--it was all fudge."

"Evidently! I must congratulate you," said de Fronsac, looking
bomb-shells.



THE OPPORTUNITY OF PETITPAS

In Bordeaux, on the 21st of December, monsieur Petitpas, a clerk with
bohemian yearnings, packed his portmanteau for a week's holiday. In
Paris, on the same date, monsieur Tricotrin, poet and pauper, was
commissioned by the Editor of _Le Demi-Mot_ to convert a rough
translation into literary French. These two disparate incidents were