the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne, would have nothing to do with it," said the poet, with a smile, the receipt for which certain sorts of pride alone knew the secret.

D'Artagnan bit his lips.

"Thus, then, you see, monsieur," continued the poet, "you are in error on my account, and that not being at all known to you, you have never heard tell of me." "Ah! that confounds me.

That name, Jupenet, appears to me, nevertheless, a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of MM.
Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier.

I hope, monsieur, you will have the goodness to repeat to me a part of your tragedy presently, by way of dessert, for instance.