me. Will you do it with me? Will you work with me? We shall make something great!"
"Ah, you don't know what you ask!" Vendemer answered, with his pale smile.
"I do—I do; I've thought of it. It will be bad for me in my country; I shall suffer for it. They won't like it—they'll abuse me for it—they'll say of me pis que pendre." Heidenmauer pronounced it bis que bendre.
"They'll hate my libretto so?" Vendemer asked.
"Yes, your libretto—they'll say it's immoral and horrible. And they'll say I'm immoral and horrible for having worked with you," the young composer went on, with his pleasant, healthy lucidity. "You'll injure my career. Oh yes, I shall suffer!" he joyously, exultingly cried.
"Et moi donc!" Vendemer exclaimed.
"Public opinion, yes. I shall also make you suffer—I shall nip your prosperity in the bud. All that's des bêtises—tes pêtisses," said poor Heidenmauer. "In art there are no countries."
