to her liking. She, too, professed mistrust of pretty women, whom she invited only to lunches and teas and such entertainments, because she feared that their pretty frocks, their arms and shoulders, would divert the attention of her great men from their duty to her and her salon. She kept a little bell beside her, and only allowed the great men to talk in turn. "Now, M. Renan," and Renan poured forth to order. "If you please, M. Dumas," and behold M. Dumas acquitting himself with docility and force. The famous story of the petits pois is told of every distinguished guest of Madame Aubernon. Sometimes you hear it with Dumas's name, or Renan's, or Pailleron's. It does not matter, but the incident remains a delightful illustration of the inconveniences of eating your dinner on the understanding that you are to pay for it in wit. The great man opened his lips out of turn, when the hostess stormily rang the bell, and ordered him to shut them again. Somebody else was speaking with permission. When he ceased, Madame Aubernon turned graciously to her tame lion, and said: "Now you may speak. What was it you wanted to say?" "Oh, nothing, madame. I only wanted to ask for another helping of peas." Musical celebrities are not so easily trained. When, after dining at some Parisian countess's, Chopin was asked to play, he quietly retorted: Madame, j'ai si peu mangé. But if
