t renders services which that cannot give.
When cut down it will, like that, be good for burning only, and will not
be worth a sou more per cord.

_Pierre._ Oh! Mr. Theorist, you forget that I am a practical man. I
supposed that my reputation as a speculator was well enough established
to put me above any charge of stupidity. Do you think that I shall amuse
myself by selling my wood at the price of other wood?

_Paul._ You must.

_Pierre._ Simpleton!--Suppose I prevent the bringing of any wood to
Paris?

_Paul._ That will alter the case. But how will you manage it?

_Pierre._ This is the whole secret. You know that wood pays an entrance
duty of ten sous per cord. To-morrow I will induce the Aldermen to raise
this duty to one hundred, two hundred, or three hundred livres, so high
as to keep out every fagot. Well, do you see? If the good people do not
want to die of cold, they must come to my wood-yard. They will fight for
my wood; I shall sell it for its weight in gold, and this well-regulated
deed of charity will enable me to do others of the same sort.

_Paul._ This is a fine idea, and it suggests an equally good one to me.

_Jean._ Well, what is it?

_Paul._ How do you find this Normandy butter?

_Jean._ Excellent.

_Paul_. Well, it seemed passable a moment ago. But do you not think it
is a little strong? I want to make a better article at Paris. I will
have four or five hundred cows, and I will distribute milk, butter and
cheese to the poor people.

_Pierre and Jean._ What! as a charity?

_Paul._ Bah, let us always put charity in the foreground. It is such a
fine thing that its counterfeit even is an excellent card. I will give
my butter to the people and they will give me their money. Is that
called selling?

_Jean._ No, according to the _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_; but call it what
you please, you ruin yourself. Can Paris compete with Normandy in
raising cows?

_Paul._ I shall save the cost of transportation.

_Jean._ Very well; but the Normans are able to _beat_ the Parisians,
even if they do have to pay for transportation.

_Paul._ Do you call it _beating_ any one to furnish him things at a low
price?

_Jean._ It is the time-honored word. You will always be beaten.

_Paul._ Yes; like Don Quixote. The blows will fall on Sancho. Jean, my
friend, you forgot the _octroi_.

_Jean._ The _octroi_! What has that to do with your butter?

_Paul._ To-morrow I will demand _protection_, and I will induce