"I ask the concierge for M. Béranger. 'The right-hand staircase, there, in the court.' I direct my steps toward said staircase, ascend; before long I am stopped by a door; I. knock. Shuffling steps are heard, an old man appears, wrapped in a gray dressing-gown made of some common stuff.
"'M. Béranger?'
"'I am he.'
"While answering, he held his door tight, leaving but a small opening.
"'What do you want?'
"It would have been easy to present my letter of introduction; but I had had the evil thought to keep it. It was a precious autograph, signed with a very celebrated name. In it, it is true, I was judged in terms far too flattering, but one willingly abides by such kindly exagerations. In it too, my favorite poet was spoken of—the temptation was too strong to be resisted. I began to expiate my fault; I stammered a few words; I showed the paper and crayon which I had brought with which to make my drawing, for it was necessary to add action to words, so hostile was the aspect of the great man … alas! my defeat was complete, the door was closing. …
"'No sir,' he said, 'it is disagreeable to me; there are many portraits of me: among the number some are excellent; make use of these portraits, and leave me in peace.'
"Once more the door seemed on the point of being shut; all was lost.
"'Well, M. Béranger, I only get what I deserve, for I have been guilty of a bad action; I was to have given you a letter; I kept it. I thought, so great was my vanity, that I could present myself without its aid, and commit this petty theft. I am punished, and it is but just.'
"I turned to go, covered with confusion and shame; the door opens.