Modeste, pitiless for the ten martyrs she was making, begged Canalis
to read some of his poems; she wanted, she said, a specimen of his
gift for reading, of which she had heard so much. Canalis took the
volume which she gave him, and cooed (for that is the proper word) a
poem which is generally considered his finest,--an imitation of
Moore's "Loves of the Angels," entitled "Vitalis," which Monsieur and
Madame Dumay, Madame Latournelle, and Gobenheim welcomed with a few
yawns.
"If you are a good whist-player, monsieur," said Gobenheim,
flourishing five cards held like a fan, "I must say I have never met a
man as accomplished as you."
The remark raised a laugh, for it was the translation of everybody's
thought.
"I play it sufficiently well to live in the provinces for the rest of
my days," replied Canalis. "That, I think, is enough, and more than
enough literature and conversation for whist-players," he added,
throwing the volume impatiently on a table.
This little incident serves to show what dangers environ a
drawing-room hero when he steps, like Canalis, out of his sphere; he is
like the favorite actor of a second-rate audience, whose talent is lost
when he leaves his own boards and steps upon those of an upper-class
theatre.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332