ade not included. It is
scarcely necessary to say that none of the self-respecting journalists
of the better papers had taken any notice of the absurd invitation.

Breakfast now had to be served to this reduced number. A few polite
phrases that reached Thuillier's ears about the "immense" interest
of his publication, failed to blind him to the bitterness of his
discomfiture; and without the gaiety of the publisher, who had taken in
hand the reins his patron, gloomy as Hippolytus on the road to Mycenae,
let fall, nothing could have surpassed the glum and glacial coldness of
the meeting.

After the oysters were removed, the champagne and chablis which had
washed them down had begun, nevertheless, to raise the thermometer,
when, rushing into the room where the banquet was taking place, a young
man in a cap conveyed to Thuillier a most unexpected and crushing blow.

"Master," said the new-comer to Barbet (he was a clerk in the
bookseller's shop), "we are done for! The police have made a raid upon
us; a commissary and two men have come to seize monsieur's pamphlet.
Here's a paper they have given me for you."

"Look at that," said Barbet, handing the document to la Peyrade, his
customary assurance beginning to forsake him.

"A summons to appear at once before the court of assizes," said la
Peyrade, after reading a few lines of the sheriff's scrawl.

Thuillier had turned as pale as death.

"Didn't you fulfil all the necessary formalities?" he said to Barbet, in
a choking voice.

"This is not a matter of formalities," said la Peyrade, "it is a seizure
for what is called press misdemeanor, exciting contempt and hatred of
the government; you probably have the same sort of compliment awaiting
you at home, my poor Thuillier."

"Then it is treachery!" cried Thuillier, losing his head completely.

"Hang it, my dear fellow! you know very well what you put in your
pamphlet; for my part, I don't see anything worth whipping a cat for."

"There's some misunderstanding," said Barbet, recovering courage;
"it will all be explained, and the result will be a fine cause of
complaint--won't it, messieurs?"

"Waiter, pens and ink!" cried one of the journalists thus appealed to.

"Nonsense! you'll have time to write your article later," said another
of the brotherhood; "what has a bombshell to do with this 'filet
saute'?"

That, of course, was a parody on the famous speech of Charles XII., King
of Sweden, when a shot interrupted h