Toward this period, however, he abandoned the art of painting and launched on the career of an author, contributing under the name of Gustave Z.... to ‘La Vie Parisienne’.  His articles found great favor, he showed himself an exquisite raconteur, a sharp observer of intimate family life, and a most penetrating analyst.  The very gallant sketches, later reunited in ‘Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe’ (1866), and crowned by the Academy, have gone through many editions.  ‘Entre nous’ (1867) and ’Une Femme genante’, are written in the same humorous strain, and procured him many admirers by the vivacious and sparkling representations of bachelor and connubial life.  However, Droz knows very well where to draw the line, and has formally disavowed a lascivious novel published in Belgium—­’Un Ete a la campagne’, often, but erroneously, attributed to him.

It seems that Gustave Droz later joined the pessimistic camp.  His works, at least, indicate other qualities than those which gained for him the favor of the reading public.  He becomes a more ingenious romancer, a more delicate psychologist.  If some of his sketches are realistic, we must consider that realism is not intended ’pour les jeunes filles du pensiannat’.

Beside the works mentioned in the above text, Gustave Droz wrote:  ’Le Cahier bleu de Mademoiselle Cibot (1868), ’Auteur d’une Source (1869), ‘Un Paquet de Lettres’ (1870), ‘Babolain’ (1872), ‘Les Etangs’ (1875), ’Tristesses et Sourires (1883), and L’Enfant (1884).

He died in Paris, October 22, 1895.

                  CamilleDoucet
               de l’Academie Francaise.

CHAPTER I

MY FIRST SUPPER PARTY

The devil take me if I can remember her name, notwithstanding I dearly loved her, the charming girl!

It is strange how rich we find ourselves when we rummage in old drawers; how many forgotten sighs, how many pretty little trinkets, broken, old-fashioned, and dusty, we come across.  But no matter.  I was now eighteen, and, upon my honor, very unsuspecting.  It was in the arms of that dear—­I have her name at the tip of my tongue, it ended in “ine”—­it was in her arms, the dear child, that I murmured my first words of love, while I was close to her rounded shoulder, which had a pretty little mole, where I imprinted my first kiss.  I adored her, and she returned my affection.

I really think I should have married her, and that cheerfully, I can assure you, if it had not been that on certain details of moral weakness her past life inspired me with doubts, and her present with uneasiness.  No man is perfect; I was a trifle jealous.

Well, one evening—­it was Christmas eve—­I called to take her to supper with a friend of mine whom I esteemed much, and who became an examining magistrate, I do not know where, but he is now dead.

I went upstairs to the room of the sweet girl, and was quite surprised to find her ready to start.  She had on, I remember, a square-cut bodice, a little too low to my taste, but it became her so well that when she embraced me I was tempted to say:  “I say, pet, suppose we remain here”; but she took my arm, humming a favorite air of hers, and we soon found ourselves in the street.