"True, true; but I said that to deceive you the better. Adieu, neighbor!--By the way, do you know the news? They say that the Baron de Witcheritche wears horns. There's a young musician who offered to show the baroness how to play the serpent; the husband consented, because it would be one more string to their bow, and it might be useful on occasion. Moreover, the baron thought that he would compose some little duets for the violin and the serpent, that he and his wife could perform in company. So the musician came every morning to give her lessons; but one fine day, Witcheritche, who was supposed to be in the country, returned home unexpectedly; he found the teacher's method of instruction too progressive and the baroness too apt. It seems that Witcheritche wasn't as fond of music as usual that day; for he shrieked and swore; his wife wept, the musician skipped; in short, there was a scandalous scene. Little Friquet, whom I happened to meet the other day, told me about it; he had it from his aunt, who had it from Madame Bertin, who had it from Crachini, who had it from Gripaille, who had it from a young lady who lives in the house with Witcheritche. But I say that we shouldn't be too ready to believe rumors; we should go back to the fountain head. I am going to the baron's this morning; I shall see whether he is on cool terms with his wife, and I'll find a way to make him tell me everything, without seeming to do so, by just mentioning the serpent. Adieu! I have to finish a little vaudeville for which I have an order from Rue de Chartres." "Have you had a play accepted at some theatre?" "Why, I have had plays accepted everywhere." "It's strange that they are never produced." "Oh! I'll tell you why that is: when they are not produced at once, I withdraw them! I have a will of my own, you know. Withdrawn at once, if not produced as soon as I request it. It's like my pictures, my little water-colors, which I don't send to the Salon, for fear they'll be hung in a bad light. A man should have some pride; veritable talent is centred within itself, and there always comes a time when its envelope is pierced.--Adieu, neighbor! I'll give you a chance to dress."