"True; he lives by his pen--others die by it," said Rachel bitterly. "By the way, has any one seen Scribe's new Vaudeville?"
"I have," replied a bald little gentleman with a red and green ribbon in his button-hole.
"And your verdict?"
"The plot is not ill-conceived; but Scribe is only godfather to the piece. It is almost entirely written by Duverger, his collaborateur."
"The life of a collaborateur," said Rachel, "is one long act of self-abnegation. Another takes all the honor--he all the labor. Thus soldiers fall, and their generals reap the glory."
"A collaborateur," said a cynical-looking man who had not yet spoken, "is a hackney vehicle which one hires on the road to fame, and dismisses at the end of the journey."
"Sometimes without paying the fare," added a gentleman who had till now been examining, weapon by weapon, all the curious poignards and pistols on the table. "But what is this singular ornament?"
And he held up what appeared to be a large bone, perforated in several places.
The bald little man with the red and green ribbon uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"It is a tibia!" said he, examining it through his double eye-glass.