"He has not read them," he whispered to me.
"Quite likely," I replied.
This semi-conviction somewhat restored our spirits. At dessert, I told several stories, and among them a hunting tale.
"What do you mean," exclaimed Rousseau, "by telling such capital stories as that and yet amusing yourself by cribbing melodramas from Florian and tales from M. Bouilly? Why, in the story you have just related, there is a comedietta complete in itself, la Chasse et l'Amour."
"Do you think so?" we both exclaimed.
(At that period of our friendship we addressed Rousseau in formal parlance.)
"The deuce I do."
"But suppose we were to write this comedietta ...?"
"Let us do it!" we repeated in chorus.
"Wait a moment; not so fast," said Rousseau. "There is still another bottle of champagne; let us drink it."