Pisistratus.—You are not so bad as you paint yourself. I would do something more for you, if I can, than lend you the little I have to offer: will you be frank with me?
Stranger.—That depends—I have been frank enough hitherto, I think.
Pisistratus.—True; so I proceed without scruple. Don't tell me your name or your condition, if you object to such confidence; but tell me if you have relations to whom you can apply? You shake your head: well, then, are you willing to work for yourself? or is it only at the billiard-table—pardon me—that you can try to make four sous produce ten francs?
Stranger (musing.)—I understand you; I have never worked yet—I abhor work. But I have no objection to try if it is in me.
Pisistratus.—It is in you: a man who can walk from Paris to Boulogne with twelve sous in his pocket, and save four for a purpose—who can stake those four on the cool confidence in his own skill, even at billiards—who can subsist for three days on three rolls—and who, on the fourth day, can wake from the stones of a capital with an eye and a spirit as proud as yours, has in him all the requisites to subdue fortune.
Stranger.—Do you work?—you?
Pisistratus.—Yes—and hard.
Stranger.—I am ready to work, then.
Pisistratus.—Good. Now, what can you do?
Stranger (with his odd smile.)—Many things useful. I can split a bullet on a penknife: I know the secret tierce of Coulon, the fencing-master: I can speak two languages (besides English) like a native, even to their slang: I know every game in the cards: I can act comedy, tragedy, farce: I can drink down Bacchus himself: I can make any woman I please in love with me—that is, any woman good-for-nothing. Can I earn a handsome livelihood out of all this—wear kid gloves, and set up a cabriolet?—you see my wishes are modest!