"And this is the country!" he exclaimed, "this is rest and holiday! I have to work like a nigger, writing plays--plays with couplets--and then go to bed regularly at two in the morning, and this is what is called being in clover!" Pierrot had listened to this outburst with apparent solemnity. "Continue, old man," he said jeeringly, "you interest me!" Bijou laughed, and Jean, looking annoyed, turned towards Pierrot, and said sarcastically, "You are very witty, my dear boy!" "Children, you are perfectly insufferable!" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux, raising her voice. She was looking at them in surprise, wondering what wind had suddenly risen to bring about this storm. She could not account for all these disagreeable little speeches, and the hostile attitude they had taken up, and which was quite a new thing to the old lady. Once again she called Bijou to her. The young girl was standing looking round at everyone with a questioning expression in her soft eyes. "Do you know what's the matter with them?" asked the marchioness. "I have no idea, grandmamma," she answered innocently, the wondering look still on her face. "Don't you see how cross they are?" continued the marchioness. "Yes, I can see that they are cross, but I do not know what it's all about; if it is on account of the play, why, we won't have it! I don't want to worry everyone with it, just because I like it; but I _do_ like it immensely." Just at this moment M. de Rueille called out: "Well, are we going to work at this, yes or no? I have had enough of sitting waiting here like an imbecile." "Where are we?" asked Jean, in a way which meant, "As there's no getting out of it, let us start at once." "We've told you where we are--" answered Rueille, "we've told you twice." Bijou interposed, explaining in a conciliatory tone: "It is where the poet has to answer Venus." "Ah, yes! exactly, I remember! She has accused him of all sorts of things, and you want him to defend himself--" "In a couplet." "Yes, I understand--where are you going though?" Bijou was just crossing the room. "I am going across to sit by M. Giraud; he won't worry me like all of you." The tutor blushed, and moved slightly to make room for her on the divan on which he was seated. Denyse glided on, and took her place at his side. "We are listening," she said. Jean was twisting a pencil and a piece of paper about in his fingers. "What did Venus answer?" he asked. M. de Rueille, with an absent-minded expression on his face, was watching a moth fluttering round the lamp near him. "What did Venus answer?" called out several voices together, as loudly as possible. M. de Rueille looked aghast, and, stopping his ears, read aloud from the manuscript: "'_You know I do not believe a word of it._'" "Strike that out," said Jean, "and put: '_I do not believe it at all, you know._' And now the poet answers: