_Georges Moinaux, whose nom de plume is Georges Courteline, was born at Tours in 1860. He has written a great number of one-act comedies that have been acted at nearly all of the best Paris theatres, the first called "L'Affaire Champignon," in collaboration with Pierre Veber, 1899, and the latest "Menton Bleus." Courteline is a sincere, earnest genius, but he prefers to masquerade as an amuser--he has been summed up as the nearest approach the French have to a Mark Twain. He assumes the quick, snappy, humorous, jaunty business style of the reporter as a rule, but in his one-act verse, called "Conversion d'Alceste," acted at the Comédie Française in 1905, he appears as a misanthrope._ [Illustration] A GENTLEMAN FINDS A WATCH BY GEORGES COURTELINE Translated by V. Quiroga. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son. From the top seats of L'Étoile tram-car I perceived my friend Bréloc, who was just crossing the Place Blanche in such a state of excitement that I descended from the car on purpose to question him. "Hey! my God! what is the matter, Bréloc? What is the meaning of this face of yours, more mournful than a shop closed on account of a death in the family?" "Please don't mention it," he replied; "I just had a narrow escape from being put in jail." Which led me to think that he had committed some dishonest action, and I began to ejaculate rather loudly, when he, guessing the turn of my thoughts, exclaimed: "You don't seem to understand! I was very nearly being put in jail through an unlucky watch that I picked up last night on the Boulevard Saint Michel, and which I honestly deposited in the hands of the commissaire [police inspector] of our ward. Pretty tough, heigh? I feel almost ill from astonishment and fright. But you can judge by yourself. Have you five minutes to spare?" "Certainly. Why not?" "Then listen, and I hope you may profit by my experience. "About nine A. M. I presented myself at the police station in the Rue Duperré carrying said watch--a beautiful timepiece, by the way, with gold case and platina monogram--and I asked to be shown to the commissaire. That gentleman had just finished drinking his cup of chocolate, when he gave orders that I should be admitted to his presence, and without deigning to say good day or offer me a seat, he began: "'What do you wish?' "I had composed my features for the occasion, with the smile of a man who accomplishes a meritorious act for which he expects to be almost crowned with glory. So I answered: "'Monsieur le Commissaire of Police, I have the honor of depositing into your hands a watch that I found last night, and--' "Without letting me finish the sentence, the commissaire sprang up, repeating the words: "'A watch! A watch!' "The gendarmes were playing a game of cards in the next room. "He hallooed to them: