Emile Augier was a broad man with wide shoulders and a common appearance, at this time rather fat. He was in very good repute at the Théâtre Français, of which he was, for the moment, the successful author. He came near me: “You managed the part at the window very well, mademoiselle, but it is ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of the author, who has written a most improbable scene. The public would laugh immoderately; this scene must be taken out.” I turned toward Perrin, who was listening silently: “Are you of the same opinion, sir?” “I talked it over a short time ago with these gentlemen, but the author is master of his work.” Then addressing myself to Bornier, I said: “Well, my dear author, what have you decided?” Little Bornier looked at big Emile Augier. There was in this beseeching and piteous glance an expression of sorrow at having to cut out a scene which he prized, and of fear to vex an Academician just at the time when he was hoping to become a member of the Academy. “Cut it out! cut it out! or you are done for!” brutally replied Augier, and turned his back. Then poor Bornier, who resembled a Breton gnome, came up to me. He scratched himself desperately, for the unfortunate man had a skin disease which itched terribly. He did not speak. He looked at us questioningly. A poignant anxiety was expressed on his face. Perrin, who had come up to me, guessed the private little drama which was taking place in the heart of the mild Bornier. “Refuse energetically,” murmured Perrin to me. I understood, and declared firmly to Bornier that if this scene was taken out I should refuse the part. Then Bornier seized both my hands which he kissed ardently, and running up to Augier he cried with comical emphasis: “But I cannot take it out! I cannot take it out! She will not play! And the day after to-morrow the play is to be passed!” Then as Emile Augier made a gesture, and would have spoken—“No! No! To put back my play eight days would be to kill it! I cannot take it out! Oh, my God!” And he cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and stamped with his short legs. His large hairy head went from right to left. He was at the same time funny and pitiful. Emile Augier was irritated, and turned on me like a hunted boar on a pursuing dog: “You will take the responsibility, mademoiselle, of the absurd window scene at the first presentation?” “Certainly, monsieur, and I even promise to make of this scene, which I find very fine, an enormous success!” He rudely shrugged his shoulders, muttering something very disagreeable between his teeth. When I left the theater I met poor Bornier quite transfigured. He thanked me a thousand times, for he thought very highly of this scene, but dared not thwart Emile Augier. Both Perrin and myself had divined the legitimate emotions of this poor poet, so gentle and so well brought up, but a trifle Jesuitical.