“There!” cried D’Artagnan, clapping his hands, “I knew I could not be deceived! It is a miracle!”
“Monsieur——”
“What, shall I have the honor of passing the evening in the society of an author, of a celebrated author perhaps?”
“Oh!” said the unknown, blushing, “celebrated, monsieur, celebrated is not the word.”
“Modest!” cried D’Artagnan, transported, “he is modest!” Then, turning towards the stranger, with a character of blunt bonhomie: “But tell me at least the name of your works, monsieur; for you will please to observe you have not told me your name, and I have been forced to divine your genius.”
“My name is Jupenet, monsieur,” said the author.
“A fine name! a grand name! upon my honor; and I do not know why—pardon me the mistake, if it be one—but surely I have heard that name somewhere.”
“I have made verses,” said the poet modestly.
“Ah! that is it, then, I have heard them read.”
“A tragedy.”