"Oh!" said the unknown, blushing, "celebrated, monsieur, celebrated is not the word."
"Modest!" cried D'Artagnan, transported, "he is modest!" Then, turning towards the stranger, with a character of blunt _bonhomie_: "But tell me at least the name of your works, monsieur; for you will please to observe you have not told me your name, and I have been forced to divine your genius."
"My name is Jupenet, monsieur," said the author.
"A fine name! a grand name! upon my honor; and I do not know why - pardon me the mistake, if it be one - but surely I have heard that name somewhere."
"I have made verses," said the poet, modestly.
"Ah! that is it, then; I have heard them read."
"A tragedy."
"I must have seen it played."
The poet blushed again, and said: "I do not think that can be the case, for my verses have never been printed."
"Well, then, it must have been the tragedy which informed me of your name."
"You are again mistaken, for MM. the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne, would have nothing to do with it," said the poet, with a smile, the receipt for which certain sorts of pride alone knew the secret.
D'Artagnan bit his lips. "Thus, then, you see, monsieur," continued the poet, "you are in error on my account, and that not being at all known to you, you have never heard tell of me."
"Ah! that confounds me. That name, Jupenet, appears to me, nevertheless, a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of MM.
Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier. I hope, monsieur, you will have the goodness to repeat to me a part of your tragedy presently, by way of dessert, for instance. That will be sugared roast meat, - _mordioux!
Ah! pardon me, monsieur, that was a little oath which escaped me, because it is a habit with my lord and master. I sometimes allow myself to usurp that little oath, as it seems in pretty good taste. I take this liberty only in his absence, please to observe, for you may understand that in his presence - but, in truth, monsieur, this cider is abominable; do you not think so? And besides, the pot is of such an irregular shape it will not stand on the table."
"Suppose we were to make it level?"
"To be sure; but with what?"
"With this knife."
"And the teal, with what shall we cut that up? Do you not, by chance, mean to touch the teal?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then - "
"Wait."
And the poet rummaged in his pocket, and drew out a piece of brass, oblong, quadrangular, about a line in thickness, and an inch and a half in length. But scarcely had this little piece of brass seen the light, than the poet appeared to have committed an imprudence, and made a movement to put it back again in his pocket. D'Artagnan perceived this, for he was a man that nothing escaped. He stretched forth his hand towards the piece of brass: "Humph! that which you hold in your hand is pretty; will you allow me to look at it?"
"Certainly," said the poet, who appeared to have yielded too soon to a first impulse. "Certainly, you may look at it: but it will be in vain for you to look at it," added he, with a satisfied air; "if I were not to tell you its use, you would never guess it."
D'Artagnan had seized as an avowal the hesitation of the poet, and his eagerness to conceal the piece of brass which a first movement had induced him to take out of his pocket. His attention, therefore, once awakened on this point, he surrounded himself with a circumspection which gave him a superiority on all occasions. Besides, whatever M. Jupenet might say about it, by a simple inspection of the object, he perfectly well knew what it was. It was a character in printing.
"Can you guess, now, what this is?" continued the poet.
"No," said D'Artagnan, "no, _ma foi!"
"Well, monsieur," said M. Jupenet, "this little piece of metal is a printing letter."
"Bah!"
"A capital."
"Stop, stop, stop," said D'Artagnan, opening his eyes very innocently.
"Yes, monsieur, a capital; the first letter of my name."
"And this is a letter, is it?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, I will confess one thing to you."
"And what is that?"
"No, I will not, I was going to say something stupid."
"No, no," said Master Jupenet, with a patronizing air.
"Well, then, I cannot comprehend, if that is a letter, how you can make a word."
"A word?"
"Yes, a printed word."
"Oh, that's very easy."
"Let me see."
"Does it interest you?"
"Enormously."
"Well, I will explain the thing to you. Attend."
"I am attending."
"This is it."
"Good."
"Look attentively."
"I am looking." D'Artagnan, in fact, appeared absorbed in observations.
Jupenet drew from his pocket seven or eight other pieces of brass smaller than the first.
"Ah, ah," said D'Artagnan.
"What!"
"You have, then, a whole printing-office in your pocket. _Peste!_ that is curious, indeed."
"Is it not?"
"Good God, what a number of things we learn by traveling."
