“Well, I will tell you,” replied D’Artagnan. The stranger gave a short truce to the movement of his jaws, in order to hear the better. “In the first place,” continued D’Artagnan, “instead of one candle, which each of us had, we have two.” “That is true!” said the stranger, struck with the extreme lucidity of the observation. “Then I see that you eat my tourteau in preference, whilst I, in preference, eat your bacon.” “That is true again.” “And then, in addition to being better lighted and eating what we prefer, I place the pleasure of your company.” “Truly, monsieur, you are very jovial,” said the unknown, cheerfully. “Yes, monsieur; jovial, as all people are who carry nothing on their minds, or, for that matter, in their heads. Oh! I can see it is quite another sort of thing with you,” continued D’Artagnan; “I can read in your eyes all sorts of genius.” “Oh, monsieur!” “Come, confess one thing.” “What is that?” “That you are a learned man.” “Ma foi! monsieur.” “Hein?” “Almost.” “Come, then!” “I am an author.” “There!” cried D’Artagnan, clapping his hands, “I knew I could not be deceived! It is a miracle!” “Monsieur——” “What, shall I have the honor of passing the evening in the society of an author, of a celebrated author perhaps?” “Oh!” said the unknown, blushing, “celebrated, monsieur, celebrated is not the word.” “Modest!” cried D’Artagnan, transported, “he is modest!” Then, turning towards the stranger, with a character of blunt bonhomie: “But tell me at least the name of your works, monsieur; for you will please to observe you have not told me your name, and I have been forced to divine your genius.” “My name is Jupenet, monsieur,” said the author. “A fine name! a grand name! upon my honor; and I do not know why—pardon me the mistake, if it be one—but surely I have heard that name somewhere.” “I have made verses,” said the poet modestly. “Ah! that is it, then, I have heard them read.” “A tragedy.” “I must have seen it played.” The poet blushed again, and said: “I do not think that can be the case, for my verses have never been printed.” “Well, then, it must have been the tragedy which informed me of your name.” “You are again mistaken, for MM. the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne, would have nothing to do with it,” said the poet, with a smile, the receipt for which certain sorts of pride alone knew the secret. D’Artagnan bit his lips. “Thus, then, you see, monsieur,” continued the poet, “you are in error on my account, and that not being at all known to you, you have never heard tell of me.”