“How so, monsieur le baron?” asked Jupenet, trembling.
“Your press was groaning all night, monsieur,” said Porthos, “and you prevented my sleeping, corne de boeuf!”
“Monsieur—” objected Jupenet, timidly.
“You have nothing yet to print: therefore you have no occasion to set your press going. What did you print last night?”
“Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition.”
“Light! no, no, monsieur; the press groaned pitifully beneath it. Let it not happen again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You promise me?”
“I do, monsieur!”
“Very well; this time I pardon you. Adieu!”