"Stupid things! Finish the sentence, pray! I am like you, I hate unfinished sentences." "Well, yes! _Stupid_ isn't just the word, but things that people keep to themselves when they think them." "I beg your pardon. I have the bad habit of saying whatever comes into my mind. It's a serious fault, I admit, and I have often had occasion to regret it in society. I regret it all the more, because I see that it has annoyed you, for you have ceased to _tutoyer_ me; and yet you were the one who said to me just now: 'Let us have no secrets from each other.'" Frédérique turned her face to mine, with a charming smile, and held out her hand, saying: "You are right I was foolish to be angry, as we agreed to be like two brothers. Come, give me your hand! That's right! The fact is, you see, that you touched a sensitive chord. I have quarrelled with Saint-Bergame; the wound is still fresh; and wounds in the vicinity of the heart do not heal quickly. I will tell you about it." "No, it's not necessary. I don't want to know it." "Oh! but I want to tell you, now. Upon my word, he is trying to prevent my speaking!" "Because I sincerely regret----" "Hush! Be quiet, and listen.--You know that Saint-Bergame writes for a newspaper?" "Yes." "The newspaper in question has much to say about literature and the stage; and Saint-Bergame writes almost all the dramatic criticisms. I have often thought that his judgments were partial and unjust, and I have not hesitated to tell him so. When I have read in his article, after a play has been successfully produced, that it has failed miserably and been hissed, I have exclaimed: "'What you have written is false! It's a shame! Why do you cry down that play?' "'Because the author is not my friend. Because he didn't come to bespeak my good will.' "'So, because an author is conscious of his dignity, because he doesn't go about begging praise; because, in short, he relies upon your sense of justice, your impartiality, you abuse him and belittle his work! And you call that exercising your profession of critic! In that case, it's a vile profession; you had better be a mason, monsieur, if your talents lie in that direction.' "But Saint-Bergame always laughed at my anger, and that was the end of it. A few days ago, however, I saw at one of the boulevard theatres a very pretty young débutante, who showed great promise in her part. Saint-Bergame was with me, and echoed my opinion of the young actress's talent. "'Then, of course, you will speak well of her in your newspaper?' I said. He smiled in a curious way, and answered: "'We shall see; that depends.' "'Depends on what? What is there to prevent your writing what you think at this moment?' "'One of my friends is making love to this débutante.' "'Well! what has that to do with the article you are going to write?'