of you."

"How lucky it falls out," thought the editor of "The Scarf of Iris."

"Were you at the Odeon Theater last night?"

"I am always at the Odeon."

"You have seen the new piece, then?"

"Who else would have seen it? I am the Odeon audience."

"That is true," said the critic, "you are one of the caryatides of the
theater. It is even rumored that it is you who finds the money for its
subvention. Well, that is what I want of you, a summary of the plot of
the new piece."

"That is easy, I have the memory of a creditor."

"Whom is this piece by?" asked the critic of Rodolphe, whilst the latter
was writing.

"A gentleman."

"It cannot be up to much."

"Well, it is not as strong as a Turk."

"Then it cannot be very robust. The Turks, you see, have usurped a
reputation for strength. Besides, there are no longer any Turks except
at masked balls and in the Champs-Elysees where they sell dates. One of
my friends knows the East and he assures me that all the natives of it
were born in the Rue Coquenard."

"That is smart," said Rodolphe.

"You think so?" observed the critic, "I will put it in my article."

"Here is my analysis of the piece, it is to the point," resumed
Rodolphe.

"Yes, but it is short."

"By putting in dashes and developing your critical opinion it will fill
some space."

"I have scarcely time, my dear fellow, and then my critical opinion will
not fill enough space either."

"You can stick in an adjective at every third word."

"Cannot you tail on to your analysis a little, or rather a long
criticism of the piece, eh?" asked the critic.

"Humph," said Rodolphe. "I have certainly some opinions upon tragedy,
but I have printed them three times in 'The Beaver' and 'The Scarf of
Iris.'"

"No matter, how many lines do your opinions fill?"

"Forty lines."

"The deuce, you have strong opinions. Well, lend me your forty lines."

"Good," thought Rodolphe, "if I turn out twenty francs' worth of copy
for him he cannot refuse me five. I must warn you," said he to the
critic, "that my opinions are not quite novel. They are rather worn at
the elbows. Before printing them I yelled them in every cafe in Paris,
there is not a waiter who does not know them by heart."

"What does that matter to me? You surely do not know me. Is there
anything new in the world except virtue?"

"Here you are," said Rodolphe, as he finished.

"Thunder and tempests, there is still nearly a column wanting. How is