I looked at the envelope a long time, and gave it at last to Madame Guérard. “It is a letter from M. Perrin, director of the Comédie Française,” she said. “He asks if you can fix a time to see him on Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon at the Comédie Française or at your own house.” “Thanks. What day is it to-day?” I asked. “Monday,” she replied. I then installed Madame Guérard at my desk, and asked her to reply that I would go there the following day at three o’clock. I was earning very little at that time at the Odéon. I was living on what my father had left me—that is, on the transaction made by the Hâvre notary—and not much remained. I therefore went to see Duquesnel and showed him the letter. “Well, what are you going to do?” he asked. “Nothing. I have come to ask your advice.” “Oh well, I advise you to remain at the Odéon. Besides, your engagement does not terminate for another year, and I shall not allow you leave!” “Well, raise my salary, then,” I said. “I am offered twelve thousand francs a year at the Comédie. Give me fifteen thousand here and I will stay, for I do not want to leave.” “Listen to me,” said the charming manager in a friendly way. “You know that I am not free to act alone. I will do my best, I promise you.” And Duquesnel certainly kept his word. “Come here to-morrow before going to the Comédie, and I will give you Chilly’s reply. But take my advice, and if he obstinately refuses to increase your salary, do not leave; we shall find some way.... And besides—— Anyhow, I cannot say any more.” I returned the following day according to arrangement. I found Duquesnel and Chilly in the managerial office. Chilly began at once somewhat roughly: “And so you want to leave, Duquesnel tells me. Where are you going? It is most stupid, for your place is here. Just consider, and think it over for yourself. At the Gymnase they only give modern pieces, dressy plays. That is not your style. At the Vaudeville it is the same. At the Gaîté you would spoil your voice. You are too distinguished for the Ambigu.” I looked at him without replying. I saw that his partner had not spoken to him about the Comédie Française. He felt awkward, and mumbled: “Well then, you are of my opinion?” “No,” I answered; “you have forgotten the Comédie.” He was sitting in his big arm-chair, and he burst out laughing. “Ah no, my dear girl,” he said, “you must not tell me that. They’ve had enough of your queer character at the Comédie. I dined the other night with Maubant, and when some one said that you ought to be engaged at the Comédie Française he nearly choked with rage. I can assure you the great tragedian did not show much affection for you.” “Oh well, you ought to have taken my part,” I exclaimed, irritated. “You know very well that I am a most serious member of your company.”