“Peste!—that is a great honor for us,” said D’Artagnan, filling his companion’s glass, whilst the host went out.
“So,” resumed the poet, returning to his dominant ideas, “you never saw any printing done?”
“Never.”
“Well, then, take the letters thus, which compose the word, you see: A B; ma foi! here is an R, two E E, then a G.” And he assembled the letters with a swiftness and skill which did not escape the eye of D’Artagnan.
“Abrege,” said he, as he ended.
“Good!” said D’Artagnan; “here are plenty of letters got together; but how are they kept so?” And he poured out a second glass for the poet. M. Jupenet smiled like a man who has an answer for everything; then he pulled out—still from his pocket—a little metal ruler, composed of two parts, like a carpenter’s rule, against which he put together, and in a line, the characters, holding them under his left thumb.
“And what do you call that little metal ruler?” said D’Artagnan, “for, I suppose, all these things have names.”
“This is called a composing-stick,” said Jupenet; “it is by the aid of this stick that the lines are formed.”
“Come, then, I was not mistaken in what I said; you have a press in your pocket,” said D’Artagnan, laughing with an air of simplicity so stupid, that the poet was completely his dupe.
“No,” replied he; “but I am too lazy to write, and when I have a verse in my head, I print it immediately. That is a labor spared.”