“Is it you who lived at the boarding-house kept by Madame Vauquer, née De Conflans?” “Exactly.” “And who knew the Père Goriot and Vautrin?” “Yes, indeed.” “You exist, then?” I stupidly inquired. M. de Rastignac began to smile. “Do you think that I present the appearance of a phantom?” he asked, as he gracefully twirled his moustache. “Sir,” I said, “I can readily understand that M. de Balzac should have borrowed your personality and extracted a great deal therefrom for the edification of his readers; but that he should have taken your name!—that, indeed, is something that I cannot believe.” “I had authorized him so to do.” “You?” “Not only I did so, but all my friends did the same.” “All, you say?” “Certainly.” “Of whom do you speak?” “Of those who are in the theatre and to whom I have just bowed.” “But where are they?” “Ah, yes; I forgot you cannot see them.” M. de Rastignac lightly touched my forehead with the forefinger of his right hand, and, light as was his touch, I immediately felt a violent electric shock, and it seemed as though I had undergone an operation similar to that of removing a cataract. “Now look about you,” said M. de Rastignac, and he pointed to the boxes and stalls which I had thought were empty. They were occupied by ladies and gentlemen, laughing and talking together in a most unghostlike fashion. “They are almost all there,” said Madame Vauquer’s former lodger. “The principal personages of the ‘Comédie Humaine’ have, like you, come to salute the hundredth representation of ‘Mercadet,’ and their applause is so loud, _so loud_, that the echo of their bravos will rejoice Balzac in his tomb.” “Am I losing my reason?” I asked myself. “I see that you are skeptical, my dear fellow,” M. de Rastignac continued, “but let me give you a few proofs. Here is one which will satisfy you, I imagine;” and, turning about, he called to one of the spectators:— “Nathan!” “Well, my dear count?” “Where and when is your next drama?” “It will be given at the opening of the Ambigu-Comique.” “Will you send me a box?” “Your name is already on the list.” “Du Bruel!” “What is it?” “You are becoming lazy, now that you are a member of the Académie.” “I? I have five acts in rehearsal at the Vaudeville and two at the Variétés.” “That is not so bad, then. But where is your wife?” “Tullia? She is in the third box to the left.” “Alone?” “With La Palférine.” “Bixion, your last caricatures were infamous.” “Bah! I would like to see you try your hand at them, with the censure at your heels.” “How are you, Lou de Lora? How are you, Stedman? Your exposition is superb. Ah, my friends, you are the princes of the Musée. But I say, Stedman, Pradier has just died: there is a fine place open.” “Yes; but then, alas, there are men who can never be replaced.” All these questions and answers bounded like the balls which two clever players serve and receive in a well-played game of tennis.