“Yes, my dear Duq,” I acknowledged. “I, too, want it put on at once. Do you want to be very nice?” I added. “If so, let us have it for the benefit of M. X—— in a fortnight from now. That would not make any difference to other arrangements, and our poet would be so happy.” “Good!” said Duquesnel, “I will settle it like that. What about the scenery, though?” he muttered, meditatively, biting his nails, which were his favorite meal when disturbed in his mind. I had already thought that out, so I offered to drive him home and on the way I put my plan before him. We might have the scenery of “Jeanne de Signoris,” a piece that had recently been put on and taken off again immediately, after being jeered at by the public. The scenery consisted of a superb Italian park, with flowers, statues, and even a flight of steps. As to costumes, if we spoke of them to Chilly, no matter how little they might cost, he would shriek, as he had done in his rôle of _Rodin_. The only thing for it was that Agar and I would have to supply our own costumes. On arriving at Duquesnel’s house, he suddenly asked me to go in with him and discuss the costumes with his wife. I accepted his invitation, and, after kissing the prettiest face imaginable, I told the owner of the face about our plot. She approved of everything, and promised to begin at once to look out for pretty designs for our costumes. While she was talking I compared her with Agar. Oh, how much I preferred that charming head with its fair hair, those large, limpid eyes, and the whole face, with its two little pink dimples! Her hair was soft and light, and formed a halo round her forehead. I admired, too, her delicate wrists, finishing with the prettiest hands imaginable, hands that were, later on, quite famous. On leaving the friendly couple I drove straight to Agar’s, to tell her what had happened. She kissed me over and over again, and a cousin of hers, a priest, who happened to be there, appeared to be very delighted with my story. He seemed to know about everything. Presently there was a timid ring at the bell, and François Coppée was announced. “I am just going away,” I said to him, as I met him in the doorway and shook hands. “Agar will tell you everything.” The rehearsals of his piece, “Le Passant,” commenced very soon after this, and were delightful, for the shy young poet was a most interesting and intelligent talker.