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70 summons of my sister Dinarzarde, I must have something in readiness to relate to the illustrious Schahriar, arbiter of my destiny; Galland, the idiot, has deceived the universe by asserting that the sultan, surfeited with stories, had granted me a pardon after the thousand and first night; there is not a word of truth in it; he is more ravenous for stories than ever, and his curiosity alone can countervail his cruelty."

"Your sultan Schahriar, my poor Scheherazade, is dreadfully like our public; if we fail for a single day to afford it its usual amusement, it does not cut off our head, it is true, but it forgets us, and that is pretty nearly as bad. Your sad fate grieves me, but what can I do?"

"You must have some novel, some feuilleton, in your portfolio; let me have it."

"Do you know what you are asking, charming Sultana? I have nothing finished; I never work except when compelled by the last extremity of famine, for, as Persius has well said: Fames facit poetridas picas. I have still enough to keep myself from starving for three days; go and find Karr, if you can get to him through the swarms of wasps that are all the time buzzing and fluttering around his door and against his windows; he has his head stuffed full with the most delightful love-stories that he will relate to you in the interval between a boxing lesson and a tune on his French horn; or wait and catch Jules Janin as he turns the corner of some feuilleton, and he will walk along at your side and improvise such a story as the sultan Schahriar never heard in all his life."