"Oh no, my dear d'E———," replied Dumas with a smile, "you're mistaken; it's not a bad colour: it is exactly the shade of the sour grapes in the fable."
Gozlan one day asked Dumas why a certain bête noir of his had received the Legion of Honour.
"Don't you know?" answered the author, looking wise, and as if he had some State secret to reveal.
"Certainly I don't know—you don't know either!"
"Ah, but I do, though!"
"Then,—tell me!"
They've given him a cross—because—he hadn't one!"
This is as severe as Mark Twain's comment that "few escape that distinction."
Writing furiously at his romances, our author exiled himself from society as much as possible, and for that purpose retired to some rented rooms in the "Henry IV." pavilion at St Germain; but even there he was constantly disturbed by friends, parasites and duns, and in despair found it necessary to move further afield. Driven from St Germain, he discovered between that town and Marly a site which seemed to him to be an ideal one for a quiet, unpretentious house, which should be his own—he was tired of living in other peoples' houses. He arranged with an architect for a two- or three-roomed cottage, where he could work in peace. But as he discussed
