"This noble book, for instance," began the clerk, laying a reverent hand on the abominable manuscript.
"Hein?" exclaimed its victim, starting.
"To have written this noble book must be a joy compared with which my own prosperity is valueless."
"The damned thing is no work of mine," cried Tricotrin; "and if we are to avoid a quarrel, I will ask you not to accuse me of it! A joy, indeed? In that block of drivel you view the cause of my deepest misfortunes."
"A thousand apologies!" stammered his companion; "my inference was hasty. But what you say interests me beyond words. This manuscript, of seeming innocence, is the cause of misfortunes? May I crave an enormous favour; may I beg you to regard me as a friend and give me your confidence?"
"I see no reason why I should refuse it," answered Tricotrin, on whom the boast of "prosperity" had made a deep impression. "You must know, then, that this ineptitude, inflicted on me by an eccentric editor for translation, drove me to madness, and not an hour ago I cast it from my window in disgust. It is a novel entirely devoid of taste and tact, and it had the clumsiness to alight on my landlord's head. Being a man of small nature, he retaliated by demanding his rent."
"Which it was not convenient to pay?" interrupted Petitpas, all the pages of La Vie de Bohème playing leapfrog through his brain.
"I regret to bore you by so trite a situation. 'Which it was not convenient to pay'! Indeed, I was not responsible for all of it, for I occupied the room with a composer named Pitou. Well, you can construct the next scene without a collaborator; the landlord has a speech, and the tragedy is entitled 'Tricotrin in Quest of a Home.'"
"What of the composer?" inquired the delighted clerk; "what has become of monsieur Pitou?"
"Monsieur Pitou was not on in that Act. The part of Pitou will attain prominence when he returns and finds himself locked out."