"Well, then," said M. Brézé, "in that case I must offer Rabbe some advice." "You?" "Yes, I." "You are quite capable of doing so--what will it be?" "I must tell him to leave off writing his résumés and take to writing vaudevilles." The advice struck Barthélemy as a magnificent joke. "Say that again," he said to M. Brézé. "I must advise Rabbe to leave off writing his résumés and take to writing vaudevilles." "My goodness!" exclaimed Barthélemy, "do offer him that advice, Monsieur Brézé." "I will." "When?" "The first time I see him." "You promise me you will?" "On my word of honour." "Whatever you do don't forget!" "Make your mind quite easy." Barthélemy and M. Brézé shook hands and separated. M. Brézé very much delighted with himself for having conceived such a splendid idea; Barthélemy with only one regret, that he could not be at hand when he put his idea into execution. As a matter of fact, M. Brézé met Rabbe one day, upon the Pont des Arts. Rabbe was then deep in Russian history: he was as pre-occupied as Tacitus. "Oh! I am pleased to see you, my dear Rabbe!" said M. Brézé, as he came up to him. "And I to see you," said Rabbe. "I have been looking for you for the past week." "Indeed." "Upon my word, I have!" "What for?" "My dear Rabbe, you know how attached I am to you?" "Why, yes!" "Well, then, in your own interest ... you understand? In your interest ..." "Certainly, I understand." "Well, I have a piece of advice to offer you." "To offer me?" "Yes, you." "Give it me, then," said Rabbe, looking at Brézé over his spectacles, as he was in the habit of doing, when he felt great surprise or people began to bore him. "Believe me, I speak as a friend." "I do not doubt it; but what is the advice?" "Rabbe, my friend, instead of making résumés, write vaudevilles!" A deep growl sounded from the historian's breast. He seized the offerer of advice by the arm, and in an awful voice he said to him-- "Monsieur, one of my enemies must have sent you to insult me." "One of your enemies?" "It was Latouche!" "Why, no ..." "Then it was Santo-Domingo!" "No." "Or Loëve-Weymars!" "I swear to you it was none of them." "Tell me the name of the insulting fellow." "Rabbe! my dear Rabbe!" "Give me his name, monsieur, or I will take you by the heels and pitch you into the Seine, as Hercules threw Pirithous into the sea." Then, perceiving that he had got mixed in his quotation-- "Pirithous or some other, it is all the same!" "But I take my oath ..." "Then it is you yourself?" exclaimed Rabbe, before Brézé had time to finish his sentence. "Well, monsieur, you shall account to me for this insult!" At this proposition, Brézé gave such a jump that he tore himself from the pincer-like grip that held him and ran to put himself under the protection of the pensioner who took the toll at the bridge.