"One may tell him that he is no swordsman, and no true cavalier; one may decry all his graces and he will laugh with one; but one may not say that he will never be a poet. He will not believe it."
"Oh, he believes it, au fond," answered Saint-Dantin. "It amuses him to pretend. Ah, here he is!"
Into the room came Philip, a vision in shades of yellow. He carried a rolled sheet of parchment, tied with an amber ribbon. He walked with a spring, and his eyes sparkled with pure merriment. He waved the parchment roll triumphantly.
Saint-Dantin went forward to greet him.
"But of a lateness, Philippe," he cried, holding out his hands.
"A thousand pardons, Louis! I was consumed of a rondeau until an hour ago."
"A rondeau?" said De Vangrisse. "This morning it was a ballade!"
"This morning? Bah! That was a year ago. Since then it has been a sonnet!"
"A Dieu ne plaise!" exclaimed Saint-Dantin devoutly.
"Of course," agreed Philip. "The theme demanded a rondeau. At three this afternoon I discovered that it was so. Did you come to see me this morning, Paul?"