"He was at the ball last night," said M. de Chatelin, smoothing his ruffles. "He left early and in great haste." He raised his eyes and they were twinkling. "The pearl that hung from Mademoiselle de Marcherand's right ear inspired him and he fled." "Fled? Why?" "I believe, to compose a ballade in its honour." Saint-Dantin flung up his hands. "May the devil fly away with Philippe and his verse! I dare swear it's that that keeps him now." Paul de Vangrisse turned his head. "Do you speak of Philippe? I thought I heard his name?" "But yes! Henri declares he is possessed of an inspiration for a ballade to Julie de Marcherand's pearl." De Vangrisse came towards them, stiff silks rustling. "Alas, it is too true. I visited him this morning and found him _en déshabillé_, clasping his brow. He seized on me and demanded a rhyme to some word which I have forgot. So I left him." "Can no one convince Philippe that he is not a poet?" asked De Bergeret plaintively. De Vangrisse shook his head. "One may tell him that he is no swordsman, and no true _cavalier_; one may decry all his graces and he will laugh with one; but one may not say that he will never be a poet. He will not believe it." "Oh, he believes it, _au fond_," answered Saint-Dantin. "It amuses him to pretend. Ah, here he is!" Into the room came Philip, a vision in shades of yellow. He carried a rolled sheet of parchment, tied with an amber ribbon. He walked with a spring, and his eyes sparkled with pure merriment. He waved the parchment roll triumphantly. Saint-Dantin went forward to greet him. "But of a lateness, Philippe," he cried, holding out his hands. "A thousand pardons, Louis! I was consumed of a rondeau until an hour ago." "A rondeau?" said De Vangrisse. "This morning it was a ballade!" "This morning? Bah! That was a year ago. Since then it has been a sonnet!" "_A Dieu ne plaise!_" exclaimed Saint-Dantin devoutly. "Of course," agreed Philip. "The theme demanded a rondeau. At three this afternoon I discovered that it was so. Did you come to see me this morning, Paul?" "You asked me for a rhyme," De Vangrisse reminded him. "So I did! A rhyme for _tout_ and _fou_, and you gave me _chou_!" "Whereupon you threw your wig at me, and I fled." "_Chou!_" repeated Philip with awful scorn. "_Chou!_" Gently but firmly Saint-Dantin took the parchment from him. "You shall read it to us later," he promised. "But now you will dine." "It goes well before meat," pleaded Philip. He was answered by ribald protests. "I'll not listen to your verse on an empty stomach," declared the Vicomte. "Belike I shall appreciate it when in my cups." "You have no soul," said Philip sadly. "But I have a stomach, _petit Anglais_, and it cries aloud for sustenance." "I weep for you," said Philip. "Why do I waste my poetic gems upon you?" Saint-Dantin took him by the elbow and led him to the door. "_Parbleu_, Philippe, it's what we wish to know. You shall expound to us at dinner."