To go back to my dinner party. There was naturally much talk of the Académie, its elections and duties, its merits and demerits in public estimation. The ‘deities’ hold that those who run down the institution are all, without exception, poor creatures who cannot get in. For the strong apparent instances to the contrary, there was a reason in each case. I ventured to mention the great name of Balzac, a man from our country. But the playwright Desminières, who used to manage the amateur theatricals at Compiègne, burst out with ‘Balzac! But did you know him? Do you know, sir, the sort of man he was? An utter Bohemian! A man, sir, who never had a guinea in his pocket! I had it from his friend Frédéric Lemaître. Never one guinea! And you would have had the Académie----’ Here old Jean Réhu, having his trumpet to his ear, got the notion that we were talking of ‘tallies,’ and told us the fine story of his friend Suard coming to the Académie on January 21, 1793, the day the king was executed, and availing himself of the absence of his colleagues to sweep off the whole fees for the meeting. He tells a story well, does the old gentleman, and but for his deafness would be a brilliant talker. When I gave his health, with a few complimentary verses on his marvellous youth, the old fellow in a gracious reply called me his dear colleague. My master Astier corrected him--‘future colleague.’ Laughter and applause. ‘Future colleague’ was the title which they all gave me as they said goodbye, shaking my hand with a significant pressure, and adding, ‘We shall meet before long,’ or ‘See you soon,’ in reference to my expected call. It is not a pleasant process, paying these calls, but everyone goes through it. Astier-Réhu told me, as we came away from the dinner, that when he was elected old Dufaure let him come ten times without seeing him. Well, he would not give up, and the eleventh time the door was thrown open. Nothing like persistence.