M. JOLICOEUR (_offering his arm_). I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.) (_Aside_) (Who is she? I must find that out.) --And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt? THE LADY (_off her guard_). Monsieur de BEAU--?... He died at _Dole_! M. JOLICOEUR. Truly. How sad! (_Aside_) (Yet, on the whole, How fortunate! BEAU-_pre_?--BEAU-_vau_? Which can it be? Ah, there they go!) --Madame, your enemies retreat With all the honours of ... defeat. THE LADY. Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown A skill PREVILLE could not disown. M. JOLICOEUR. You flatter me. We need no skill To act so nearly what we will. Nay,--what may come to pass, if Fate And Madame bid me cultivate ... THE LADY (_anticipating_). Alas!--no farther than the gate. Monsieur, besides, is too polite To profit by a jest so slight. M. JOLICOEUR. Distinctly. Still, I did but glance At possibilities ... of Chance. THE LADY. Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear, Beyond the little grating here. M. JOLICOEUR (_aside_). (She's perfect. One may push too far, _Piano, sano_.) (_They reach the gates._) Here we are. Permit me, then ... (_Placing her in the carriage._) And Madame goes?... Your coachman?... Can I?... THE LADY (_smiling_). Thanks! he knows. Thanks! Thanks! M. JOLICOEUR (_insidiously_). And shall we not renew Our ... "_Ems_ acquaintanceship?" THE LADY (_still smiling_). Adieu! My thanks instead! M. JOLICOEUR (_with pathos_). It is too hard! (_Laying his hand on the grating._) To find one's Paradise is barred!! THE LADY. Nay.--"Virtue is her own Reward!" [_Exit._ M. JOLICOEUR (_solus_). BEAU-_vau_?--BEAU-_vallon_?--BEAU-_manoir_?-- But that's a detail! (_Waving his hand after the carriage._) AU REVOIR! THE CARVER AND THE CALIPH. (_We lay our story in the East. Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least. We place it there because we fear To bring its parable too near, And seem to touch with impious hand Our dear, confiding native land._) HAROUN ALRASCHID, in the days He went about his vagrant ways, And prowled at eve for good or bad In lanes and alleys of BAGDAD, Once found, at edge of the bazaar, E'en where the poorest workers are, A Carver. Fair his work and fine With mysteries of inlaced design, And shapes of shut significance To aught but an anointed glance,-- The dreams and visions that grow plain In darkened chambers of the brain.