infernal Spanish novel. A misguided editor has commissioned me to
rewrite it from a translation made by a foreigner. How can I avoid
groans when I read his rot? Miranda exclaims, 'May heaven confound you,
bandit!' And the fiance of the ingenue addresses her as 'Angel of this
house!'"

"Well, at least groan quietly," begged the concierge; "do not bellow
your sufferings to the cellar."

"To oblige you I will be as Spartan as I can," agreed Tricotrin. "Now I
have lost my place in the masterpiece. Ah, here we are! 'I feel she
brings bad tidings--she wears a disastrous mien.' It is sprightly
dialogue! If the hundred and fifty francs were not essential to keep a
roof over my head, I would send the Editor a challenge for offering me
the job."

Perspiration bespangled the young man's brow as he continued his task.
When another hour had worn by he thirsted to do the foreign translator
a bodily injury, and so intense was his exasperation that, by way of
interlude, he placed the manuscript on the floor and jumped on it. But
the climax was reached in Chapter XXVII; under the provocation of the
love scene in Chapter XXVII frenzy mastered him, and with a yell of
torture he hurled the whole novel through the window, and burst into
hysterical tears.

The novel, which was of considerable bulk, descended on the landlord,
who was just approaching the house to collect his dues.

"What does it mean," gasped monsieur Gouge, when he had recovered his
equilibrium, and his hat; "what does it mean that I cannot approach my