forty centimes, M'sieur," said he. "'Tis the first I've sold
to-day."

He looked poor and wretched. I dropped into his hand a coin that would
have purchased all his little sheaf of journals, and hurried away, not
to take the change or hear his thanks. He was silent for some moments;
then took up his cry at the point where he had broken off, and started
away with:--

--"Antoine!--state of the Bourse--latest despatches from the seat of
war--news of the day--only forty centimes!"

I took my paper to a quiet bench near the fountain, and read the whole
account. There had been eighteen anonymous poems submitted to the
Academy. Three out of the eighteen had come under discussion; one out of
the three had been warmly advocated by Beranger, one by Lebrun, and the
third by some other academician. The poem selected by Beranger was at
length chosen; the sealed enclosure opened; and the name of the
successful competitor found to be Hortense Dufresnoy. To Hortense
Dufresnoy, therefore, the prize and crown were awarded.

I read the article through, and then went home, hoping to be the first
to congratulate her. Timidly, and with a fast-beating heart, I rang the
bell at her outer door; for we all had our bells at Madame Bouisse's,
and lived in our rooms as if they were little private houses.

She opened the door, and, seeing me, looked surprised; for I had never
before ventured to pay her a visit in her apartment.

"I have come to wish you joy," said I, not venturing to cross the
threshold.

"To wish me joy?"

"You have not seen a morning paper?"

"A morning paper!"

And, echoing me thus, her color changed, and a strange vague look--it
might be of hope, it might be of fear--came into her face.

"There is something in the _Moniteur_" I went on, smiling, 'that
concerns you nearly."

"That concerns me?" she exclaimed. "_Me_? For Heaven's sake, speak
plainly. I do not understand you. Has--has anything been discovered?"

"Yes--it has been discovered at the Academie Francaise that Mademoiselle
Hortense Dufresnoy has written the best poem on Thermopylae."

She drew a deep breath, pressed her hands tightly together, and
murmured:--

"Alas! is that all?"

"All! Nay--is it not enough to step at once into fame--to have been
advocated by Beranger--to have the poem crowned in the Theatre of the
Academie Francaise?"

She stood silent, with drooping head and listless hands, all
disappointment and despondency. Presently she look