“They don’t know what they are talking about; there is nothing else so good; that is the true type of novel. But these modern authors do not understand the taste of their readers. They write books in which they aim to be bright and realistic. They draw pictures of society, as if such things could be compared with a description of a tournament! In the old days they used to write much better novels. Those of the younger Crébillon were not without merit; those of Mademoiselle de Scudéry were a little too long, I admit; but _Le Sopha_, _Le Bijoux Indiscrets_, and _Angola_--those are fine stories, sparkling with delectable details!” “If monsieur would like _L’Enfant du Carnaval_, by Pigault-Lebrun, that too is full of very amusing incidents.” “No, madame, no; I don’t read such books as that. What do you take me for? That is so broad! why, there’s a certain dish of spinach, which----” “Which makes one laugh, monsieur, whereas your Angola makes one blush, or even worse.” “Madame, give me a romance of chivalry. I want to teach my grandson, and certainly that is the only sort of reading that can be at once useful and agreeable to him.” “Would monsieur like _Don Quixote_?” “_Don Quixote_! fie, madame! your Cervantes is an impertinent fellow, a knave, a sneak, who presumes to ridicule the noblest, most gallant, most revered things in the world! If that Cervantes had lived in my time, madame, I would have made him retract his _Don Quixote_, or else, by the shades of my ancestors, I swear that he would have passed an uncomfortable quarter of an hour!” The proprietress pretended to have a paroxysm of coughing in order to conceal her desire to laugh. As for myself, I could not contain myself, I burst out laughing and the paper fell from my hands. The man with the muffler turned in my direction; he eyed me indignantly and put his right hand to his left side, whether in search of a sword, in order to treat me as he would have treated Miguel Cervantes, I do not know. But, instead of a weapon, his hand came into contact with nothing more than a bonbon box; he opened that, and took out two or three pastilles which he put in his mouth with a dignified air, and said to the woman: “Come, let us have done with this. What are you going to give me, madame?” “Perhaps monsieur is not familiar with the story of the _Quatre Fils Aymon_?” “I have read it three times, but I shall be glad to read it again. Give me the story of the _Fils Aymon_, and I will let my grandson meditate upon it; it will not be my fault if I do not make a Richardet of him.”