Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/174

“You don’t know any one who would do that for me cheap? There is my neighbor Monsieur Guérin, the public writer, but he asks the clothes off my back.”

Here Rodolphe darted a look at Marcel, who understood him at once.

“Madame,” said the artist, pointing to Rodolphe, “happy fortune has conducted hither the very person who can be of service to you in this mournful juncture. This gentleman is a renowned poet; you couldn’t find a better.”

“I want something very melancholy,” said the widow, “and the spelling all right.”

“Madame,” replied Marcel, “my friend spells like a book. He had all the prizes at school.”

“Indeed!” said the widow, “my grand-nephew has just had a prize, too; he is only seven years old.”

“A very forward child, madame.”

“But are you sure that the gentleman can make very melancholy verses?”

“No one better, madame, for he has undergone much sorrow in his life. The papers always find fault with his verses for being too melancholy.”

“What!” cried the widow, “do they talk about him in the papers? He must know quite as much, then, as Monsieur Guérin, the public writer.”

“And a great deal more. Apply to him, madame, and you will not repent of it.”

After having explained to Rodolphe the sort of inscription in verse which she wished to place on her husband’s tomb, the widow agreed to give Rodolphe ten francs if it suited her—only she must have it very soon. The poet promised she should have it the very next day.

“Oh, good genius of an Artemisia!” cried Rodolphe, as the widow disappeared. “I promise you that you shall be suited—full allowance of melancholy lyrics, better got up