tives most in demand; for instance,
the fatherly and benevolent face of the pope; Pius IX, or the
international limbs of Mademoiselle Ketty, the majestic fairy,
in tights. The journals, which print Jocquelet's name, treat him
sympathetically and conspicuously, and are full of his praises. "He is
good to his old aunt," "gives alms," "picked up a lost dog in the street
the other evening." An artist such as he, who stamps immortality on all
the comic repertory, and takes Moliere under his wing, has no time to go
to visit friends, that is understood. However, he still honors Maurice
Roger with short visits. He only has time to make all the knickknacks
and china on the sideboard tremble with the noise of his terrible voice;
only time to tell how, on the night before, in the greenroom, when
still clothed in Scapin's striped cloak, he deigned to receive, with
the coldest dignity, the compliments of a Royal Highness, or some other
person of high rank. A prominent society lady has been dying of love for
him the past six months; she occupies stage box Number Six--and then off
he goes. Good riddance!

Amedee enjoys himself in his friend's studio, where gay and witty
artists come to talk. They laugh and amuse themselves, and this
Sunday resting-place is the most agreeable of the hard-working poet's
recreations. Amedee prolongs them as long as possible, until at last he
is alone with his friend; then the young men stretch themselves out upon
the Turkish cushions, and they talk freely of their hopes, ambitions,
and dreams for the future.

Amedee, however, keeps one secret to himself; he never has told of his
love for Maria Gerard. Upon his return from Italy the traveller
inquired several times for the Gerards, sympathized politely with their
misfortune, and wished to be remembered to them through Amedee. The
latter had been very reserved in his replies, and Maurice no longer
broaches the subject in their conversation. Is it through neglect? After
all, he hardly knew the ladies; still, Amedee is not sorry to talk
of them no longer with his friend, and it is never without a little
embarrassment and unacknowledged jealousy that he replies to Maria when
she asks for news of Maurice.

She no longer inquires. The pretty Maria is cross and melancholy, for
now they talk only of one thing at the Gerards; it is always the same,
the vulgar and cruel thought, obtaining the means to live; and within a
short time they have descended a few steps