They acknowledge your great talent,' though they have long since bade their adieu to poetry; you know poets are very wayward," he added, with a sly smile.

"You have a happy privilege, my dear sir: when our age turns prosy, you have but to take your lyre, in the sweet country of the south, and resuscitate the glory of the Troubadours.

They tell me, that in one of your recent journeys you evoked enthusiastic applause, and entered many towns carpeted with flowers.

Ah, mon Dieu, we can never do that with our prose!" "Ah, dear sir," said Jasmin, "you have achieved much more glory than I.
Without mentioning the profound respect with which all France regards you, posterity and the world will glorify you." "Glory, indeed," replied Chateaubriand, with a sad smile.

"What is that but a flower that fades and dies; but speak to me of your sweet south; it is beautiful.