"Good day, Entragues. You received my note and you are bringing me some copy. Now that we come out every fortnight, I am going to be very hungry, I warn you." "Did you ever see a review lack copy--a review which pays?" Hubert answered. "Print Constance. You owe it to your subscribers. 'Every woman would like to read this new study of youthful psychology. The originality of the thought, the pure relief of the style, together with the profound knowledge of all the mysteries of the feminine heart, make it an exquisite masterpiece of the analysis of passion. Please insert.'" "He promised me a novel." "With an alluring title," interrupted a voice. Entragues turned his head. A young man, with a correct and cold air, was looking at him. Fortier introduced them to each other. He was a friend of the countess. They surely must have met at the Marigny Avenue home? Entragues acquiesced in this insinuation, thinking: Tomorrow, or the day after, my poor Fortier, the countess and _la Revue spéculative_ will belong to Lucien Renaudeau. "The title?" "Alluring," repeated Renaudeau; "it is called: 'Pure as Fire.'" "This florist of souls quite pleases me," said Jean Chrétien, in a slow and rich voice. "I am looking over, among his books, 'The Wisdom of the Nations.' It is full of incontestable truths. One walks here in a friendly garden: all the aphorisms of Stendhal and Balzac frequently crop forth. But if we wish to start a seriously symbolistic review, it is necessary to tempt culture with less familiar animals." Sylvestre entered with a cloudy air and Renaudeau instantly addressed him in a harsh tone: "Now tell us who is that counterfeit of old George Sand who came here yesterday with your recommendation?" "With a dog under each arm?" "A black and a blond one. She offered us copy, patrons, loans, her experience, romantic souvenirs, the last boots of Alexander Dumas, cards of the chief of police, the address of a photographer and three copyists, an interview with Bouvier, the right to reprint the complete works of her late husband, tickets for the coming Elysée ball and for women, too, I think, but that was a bit vague." "Oh!" Sylvestre gently answered, "she is old and poor, she must make a living." "I do not see the necessity," Renaudeau said. "A fine silhouette for a 'Parisian' novel," Fortier said. "Doubtless, because it would be true?" asked Jean Chrétien, a poet who professed Buddhism. "Would you become a modernist?" "A naturalist," said Fortier, laughing, "I want to make money." "I fancy you will want to a little later," said Entragues. "The original cavern is empty. Do you take Huysmans for a naturalist? But his _A Rebours_ is the most insolent mockery of this very school, when he simply replies to Zola's "_naturiste_" and democratic enthusiasm: "Nature has had its day!" "That is a book!" "A disheartening book," Entragues continued, "one which has confessed in advance, and for long, our tastes and distastes."