gesture--"

"I know a newspaper editor," Lousteau went on, addressing Gatien, "who,
anxious to forefend a grievous fate, will take no stories but such as
tell the tale of lovers burned, hewn, pounded, or cut to pieces; of
wives boiled, fried, or baked; he takes them to his wife to read, hoping
that sheer fear will keep her faithful--satisfied with that humble
alternative, poor man! 'You see, my dear, to what the smallest error may
lead you!' says he, epitomizing Arnolfe's address to Agnes."

"Madame de la Baudraye is quite guiltless; this youth sees double,"
said Bianchon. "Madame Piedefer seems to me far too pious to invite her
daughter's lover to the Chateau d'Anzy. Madame de la Baudraye would have
to hoodwink her mother, her husband, her maid, and her mother's maid;
that is too much to do. I acquit her."

"Well with more reason because her husband never 'quits her,' said
Gatien, laughing at his own wit.

"We can easily remember two or three stories that will make Dinah
quake," said Lousteau. "Young man--and you too, Bianchon--let me beg you
to maintain a stern demeanor; be thorough diplomatists, an easy manner
without exaggeration, and watch the faces of the two criminals, you
know, without seeming to do so--out of the corner of your eye, or in a
glass, on the sly. This morning we will hunt the hare, this evening we
will hunt the Public Prosecutor."

The evening began with a triumph for Lousteau, who returned the album to
the lady with this elegy written in it:

SPLEEN

You ask for verse from me, the feeble prey
Of this self-seeking world, a waif and stray
With none to whom to cling;
From me--unhappy, purblind, hopeless devil!
Who e'en in what is good see only evil
In any earthly thing!

This page, the pastime of a dame so fair,
May not reflect the shadow of my care,
For all things have their place.
Of love, to ladies bright, the poet sings,
Of joy, and balls, and dress, and dainty things--
Nay, or of God and Grace.

It were a bitter jest to bid the pen
Of one so worn with life, so hating men,
Depict a scene of joy.
Would you exult in sight to one born blind,
Or--cruel! of a mother's love remind
Some hapless orphan boy?

When cold despair has gripped a heart still fond,
When there is no young heart that will respond
To it in love, the future is a lie.
If there is none to weep when he is sad,
And share his woe, a man were better dead!