“What a list of accomplishments!” he rejoined, smiling. “But it would have been more to the point if you had had some notion of agriculture, the mechanical arts, commerce, banking, and industry. You are acquainted with the laws of Solon, now, I’ll wager?” I signified that I was. “Very good, very good. But you know nothing about the English constitution. But no matter. You are young, and of an age to acquire knowledge. I will give you a place about my person, with an allowance of five hundred écus. Monsieur Mille, my secretary, will instruct you as to the duties I shall expect you to perform. Au revoir, monsieur.” A lackey conducted me to Monsieur Mille, who was writing at a table in the middle of a spacious white apartment. He signalled to me to wait. He was a little roundabout man, and his appearance was pleasant, but he rolled his eyes about ferociously, and seemed to be scolding under his breath as he wrote. I heard him give utterance to the following words: “Tyrants, fetters, hell, man, Rome, slavery, liberty.”[6] I concluded he was mad. But when he had laid his pen aside he nodded his head to me and smiled. ----- Footnote 6: “_Tyrans, fers, enfers, homme, Rome, esclavage, liberté._” Monsieur Mille is, of course, engaged in a search for rhymes. (TRANS.) ----- “Well?” he said. “You are examining the apartment. It is as severe as that of an ancient Roman. No gilding on the panels, no fal-lals on the mantelpiece; nothing is left to remind us of the detestable times of the late king, nothing remains that is derogatory to the dignity of a free man (_un homme libre_). _Libre_, _Tibre_. I must jot that rhyme down. It’s a good one, now, isn’t it? Are you fond of verse, Monsieur Pierre Aubier?” I replied that I was only too much devoted to it, and that it would have served me better when I presented myself before the Duke if I had preferred Mr. Burke to Virgil. “Virgil is a great man,” replied Monsieur Mille. “But what is your opinion of Monsieur Chénier? For my part I know nothing finer than his _Charles IX_. I will not attempt to conceal from you that I am myself experimenting in tragedy, and at the very moment you entered I was finishing a scene with which I am not a little pleased. You appear to me to be a very trustworthy person. I am quite willing to confide in you so far as to tell you what my tragedy is about, but you mustn’t breathe a word. You realize how far-reaching the least indiscretion might be. I am composing a tragedy upon the subject of Lucretia.” Then taking up a large manuscript book he read out: “_Lucretia, a tragedy in five acts, dedicated to Louis the Well Beloved, the restorer of liberty to France._” He spouted some two hundred lines to me and then broke off, saying in excuse that the remainder was as yet uncorrected.