death."

"You are an excellent fellow! And you rested yourself when you arrived
there?"

"Rested! Oh! of course I did, for I had an immense deal of work to do."

"How so?"

"My wife had been flirting with the man to whom I wished to sell the
land. The fellow drew back form his bargain, and so I challenged him."

"Very good, and you fought?"

"It seems not."

"You know nothing about it, I suppose?"

"No, my wife and her relations interfered in the matter. I was kept a
quarter of an hour with my sword in my hand; but I was not wounded."

"And your adversary?"

"Oh! he wasn't wounded either, for he never came on the field."

"Capital!" cried his friends from all sides, "you must have been
terribly angry."

"Exceedingly so; I caught cold; I returned home and then my wife began
to quarrel with me."

"In real earnest?"

"Yes, in real earnest. She threw a loaf of bread at my head, a large
loaf."

"And what did you do?"

"Oh! I upset the table over her and her guests; and then I got on my
horse again, and here I am."

Every one had great difficulty in keeping his countenance at the
exposure of this heroi-comedy, and when the laughter had subsided, one
of the guests present said to La Fontaine: "Is that all you have brought
back?"

"Oh, no! I have an excellent idea in my head."

"What is it?"

"Have you noticed that there is a good deal of sportive, jesting poetry
written in France?"

"Yes, of course," replied every one.

"And," pursued La Fontaine, "only a very small portion of it is
printed."

"The laws are strict, you know."

"That may be; but a rare article is a dear article, and that is the
reason why I have written a small poem, excessively free in its style,
very broad, and extremely cynical in its tone."

"The deuce you have!"

"Yes," continued the poet, with assumed indifference, "and I have
introduced the greatest freedom of language I could possibly employ."

Peals of laughter again broke forth, while the poet was thus announcing
the quality of his wares. "And," he continued, "I have tried to excel
everything that Boccaccio, Aretin, and other masters of their craft have
written in the same style."

"Its fate is clear," said Pelisson; "it will be suppressed and
forbidden."

"Do you think so?" said La Fontaine, simply. "I assure you I did not do
it on my own account so much as M. Fouquet's."

This wonderful conclusion again raised the mirth of all present.

"And I have sold t