In truth, if Ripault-Babin or Loisillon died (they are both in danger, but even now I have most hopes of Ripault-Babin), my only serious competitor would be Dalzon. He has talent and wealth, stands well with the ‘dukes,’ and his cellar is capital; the only thing against him is a youthful peccadillo lately discovered, ‘Without the Veil,’ a poem of 600 lines printed ‘at Eropolis,’ anonymously, and utterly outrageous. They say that he has bought up and suppressed the whole, but there are still some copies in circulation with signature and dedication. Poor Dalzon contradicts the story and makes a desperate fight. The Académie reserves judgment pending the inquiry. That is why my respected master said to me gravely one evening without giving reasons, ‘I shall not vote again for M. Dalzon.’ The Académie is a club, that is the important thing to remember. You cannot go in without proper dress and clean hands. For all that I have too much gallantry and too much respect for my opponent to make use of such concealed weapons; and Fage, the bookbinder in the Cour des Comptes, the strange little humpback whom I sometimes meet in Védrine’s studio--Fage, I say, who has much acquaintance with the curiosities of bibliography, got a good snub when he offered me one of the signed copies of ‘Without the Veil.’ ‘Then it will go to M. Moser,’ was his calm reply. Talking of Védrine, I am in an awkward position. In the warmth of our first few meetings I made him promise to bring his family to stay with us in the country. But how can we have him along with people like Astier and Lavaux, who detest him? He is so uncivilised, such an oddity! Just imagine! He is by descent Marquis de Védrine, but even at school he suppressed the title and the ‘de,’ additions coveted by most people in this democratic age, when everything else may be got. And what is his reason? Because, do you see, he wants to be liked for his own sake! The latest of him is that the Princess de Rosen will not take the knight, which he has done for the Prince’s tomb. It was mentioned every minute in the family, where money is not plenty. ‘When we have sold the knight, I am to have a clockwork horse,’ said the boy. The poor mother too counted upon the knight for refurnishing her empty presses, and to Védrine himself the price of the master-piece meant just three months’ holiday in a Nile-boat. Well! the knight not sold, or to be paid for heaven knows when, after a lawsuit and a valuation, if you fancy they are thrown out by that, you are much mistaken. When I got to the Cour des Comptes the day after the disappointment, I found friend Védrine planted before an easel, absorbed in pleasure, sketching upon a large canvas the curious wild vegetation on the burnt building. Behind him were his wife and son in ecstasy, and Madame Védrine, with the little girl in her arms, said to me in a serious undertone, ‘We are so happy; Monsieur Védrine has at last got to oils.’ Is it not laughable? Is it not touching?