“Horace,” said Lousteau, “look here, O learned interpreter of human nature, let us lay a trap for the Public Prosecutor; we shall be doing our friend Gatien a service, and get a laugh out of it. I do not love Public Prosecutors.” “You have a keen intuition of destiny,” said Horace. “But what can we do?” “Well, after dinner we will tell sundry little anecdotes of wives caught out by their husbands, killed, murdered under the most terrible circumstances.--Then we shall see the faces that Madame de la Baudraye and de Clagny will make.” “Not amiss!” said Bianchon; “one or the other must surely, by look or gesture--” “I know a newspaper editor,” Lousteau went on, addressing Gatien, “who, anxious to forefend a grievous fate, will take no stories but such as tell the tale of lovers burned, hewn, pounded, or cut to pieces; of wives boiled, fried, or baked; he takes them to his wife to read, hoping that sheer fear will keep her faithful--satisfied with that humble alternative, poor man! ‘You see, my dear, to what the smallest error may lead you!’ says he, epitomizing Arnolfe’s address to Agnes.” “Madame de la Baudraye is quite guiltless; this youth sees double,” said Bianchon. “Madame Piedefer seems to me far too pious to invite her daughter’s lover to the Chateau d’Anzy. Madame de la Baudraye would have to hoodwink her mother, her husband, her maid, and her mother’s maid; that is too much to do. I acquit her.” “Well with more reason because her husband never ‘quits her,’” said Gatien, laughing at his own wit. “We can easily remember two or three stories that will make Dinah quake,” said Lousteau. “Young man--and you too, Bianchon--let me beg you to maintain a stern demeanor; be thorough diplomatists, an easy manner without exaggeration, and watch the faces of the two criminals, you know, without seeming to do so--out of the corner of your eye, or in a glass, on the sly. This morning we will hunt the hare, this evening we will hunt the Public Prosecutor.” The evening began with a triumph for Lousteau, who returned the album to the lady with this elegy written in it: SPLEEN You ask for verse from me, the feeble prey Of this self-seeking world, a waif and stray With none to whom to cling; From me--unhappy, purblind, hopeless devil! Who e’en in what is good see only evil In any earthly thing! This page, the pastime of a dame so fair, May not reflect the shadow of my care, For all things have their place. Of love, to ladies bright, the poet sings, Of joy, and balls, and dress, and dainty things-- Nay, or of God and Grace. It were a bitter jest to bid the pen Of one so worn with life, so hating men, Depict a scene of joy. Would you exult in sight to one born blind, Or--cruel! of a mother’s love remind Some hapless orphan boy?