Olivier had come to see Armand with the intention of speaking about his review and asking him to contribute to it; he no longer dared to. But Armand’s own conversation was coming round to the subject. “_The Nocturnal Vase_--eh? What a magnificent title!... With this motto from Baudelaire: ‘_Funereal vase, what tears awaitest thou?_’[6] BAUDELAIRE. “I take up once more the ancient (and ever young) comparison of the potter creator, who fashions every human being as a vase destined to hold--ah! what? And I compare myself in a lyrical outburst to the above-mentioned vase--an idea which, as I was telling you, came to me as the natural result of breathing the odour of this chamber. I am particularly pleased with the opening line: ‘_Whoe’er at forty boasts no hemorrhoids...._’ I had first of all written, in order to reassure the reader, Whoe’er at fifty...’ but I should have missed the assonance. As for ‘hemorrhoids,’ it is undoubtedly the finest word in the French language--independently of its meaning,” he added with a saturnine laugh. Olivier, a pain at his heart, kept silent. Armand went on: “Needless to say, the night vase is particularly flattered when it receives a visit from a pot filled with aromatics like yourself.” “And haven’t you written anything but that?” asked Olivier at last, desperately. “I was going to offer my _Nocturnal Vase_ to your great and glorious review, but from the tone in which you have just said ‘_that_,’ I see there isn’t much likelihood of its pleasing you. In such cases the poet always has the resource of arguing: ‘I don’t write to please,’ and of persuading himself that he has brought forth a master-piece. But I cannot conceal from you that I consider my poem execrably bad. For that matter, I have so far only written the first line. And when I say _written_, it’s a figure of speech, for I have this very moment composed it in your honour.... No, really? were you thinking of publishing something of mine? You actually desired my collaboration? You judged me, then, not incapable of writing something decent? Can you have discerned on my pale brow the revealing stigmata of genius? I know the light here is not very favourable for looking at oneself in the glass, but when--like another Narcissus--I gaze at my reflection, I can see nothing but the features of a failure. After all, perhaps it’s an effect of chiaroscuro.... No, my dear Olivier, no; I have done nothing this summer, and if you are counting on me for your review, you may go to blazes. But that’s enough about me.... Did all go well in Corsica? Did you enjoy your trip? Did it do you good? Did you rest after your labours? Did you....” Olivier could bear it no longer: “Oh! do shut up, old boy. Stop playing the ass. If you imagine I think it’s funny....”