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.”
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
“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
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
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.”
“That 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.