Then, suddenly, Dupin said:
'He cannot write tragedy, that's true. He's much better at writing his funny pieces for the newspaper.'
'Oh yes, I agree with that. He—' Then I stopped, astonished. 'Dupin,' I said, 'I do not understand. How could you possibly know that I was thinking about—?'
Again, I stopped. Did Dupin really know who I was thinking about?
'About Chantilly,' Dupin said. 'You were saying to yourself that he was a good writer, but he cannot write tragedy.'
'Yes, that's true,' I said. 'I was thinking that. But tell me, please! How did you know?'
This Chantilly wrote for one of the Paris newspapers. He wrote about Paris and Parisians in a way that was both clever and very funny. But then he wrote a book, a long story about the ancient Greeks, and Phaedra, the wife of King Theseus. It was, everybody in Paris agreed, a very bad book.
'It was the apple-seller,' replied my friend. 'The apple-seller began the thoughts that took you to Chantilly and his book.'
'The apple-seller!' I said, astonished. 'But I don't know any apple-sellers.'