I got over this shock, and hunted all through the
bill of fare, (which, as you know, forms in Paris a duodecimo volume of
a good many pages,) trying my best to discover some romantic dish and
some supernal _liqueur_, until he cut short my chase by suggesting a
dinner of the most vulgar solidity; and when I tried to retrieve this
commonplace dinner by ordering for dessert some vapory _liqueurs_, such
as uncomprehended women sip, he proposed a glass of brandy. This was my
first literary deception.
A theatrical newspaper was lying on the table. It contained an account
of a piece played the evening before. The writer spoke of the play as a
masterpiece, and of the performance as being one of those triumphs which
form an epoch in the history of dramatic art. I read this panegyric with
avidity, and exclaimed,--
"Oh, what a glorious thing success is! How happy that author must be!"
"He!" replied Monsieur Sandeau, smiling; "he is mortified to death; his
play is execrable, and it fell flat."
"You must be mistaken!"
"I was present at the performance; and I have no reason to be pleased at
the miscarriage of the piece, for I am neither an enemy nor an intimate
friend of the author.
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