"Yes, my dear—certainly; but—-" "Your wife is right, sir," said Nodier, thinking that the quarrel was about some debts he had incurred.
"Truly, sir," rejoined Jasmin; "if you were a lover of poetry, you would not find it so easy to renounce it."
"Poetry?" said Nodier; "I know a little about that myself."
"What!" replied Jasmin, "so much the better. You will be able to help me out of my difficulties."
"You must not expect any help from me, for I presume you are oppressed with debts."
"Ha, ha!" cried Jasmin, "it isn't debts, it's verses, Sir."
"Yes, indeed," said the wife, "it's verses, always verses! Isn't it horrible?"
"Will you let me see what you have written?" asked Nodier, turning to Jasmin.
"By all means, sir. Here is a specimen." The verses began:
"Femme ou demon, ange ou sylphide,
Oh! par pitie, fuis, laisse-moi!
Doux miel d'amour n'est que poison perfide,
Mon coeur a trop souffert, il dort, eloigne-toi.
"Je te l'ai dit, mon coeur sommeille;
Laisse-le, de ses maux a peine il est gueri,
Et j'ai peur que ta voix si douce a mon oreille
Par un chant d'amour ne l'eveille,
Lui, que l'amour a taut meurtri!"