“But I did take your part,” he said, “and I added even that it would be a very fortunate thing for the Comédie if it could have an artiste with your will power, which perhaps might relieve the monotonous tone of the house; and I only spoke as I thought, but the poor tragedian was beside himself. He does not consider that you have any talent. In the first place, he maintains that you do not know how to recite verse. He declares that you make all your _a_’s too broad. Finally, when he had no arguments left he declared that as long as he lives you will never enter the Comédie Française.” I was silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the probable result of my experiment. Finally coming to a decision, I murmured somewhat waveringly: “Well then, you will not give me a higher salary?” “No, a thousand times no!” yelled Chilly. “You will try to make me pay up when your engagement comes to an end, and then we shall see. But I have your signature until then. You have mine, too, and I hold to our engagement. The Théâtre Français is the only one that would suit you beside ours, and I am quite easy in my mind with regard to that theatre.” “You make a mistake perhaps,” I answered. He got up brusquely and came and stood opposite me, his two hands in his pockets. He then said in an odious and familiar tone: “Ah, that’s it, is it? You think I am an idiot, then?” I got up too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back, “I think you are a triple idiot.” I then hurried away towards the staircase, and all Duquesnel’s shouting was in vain. I ran down the stairs two at a time. On arriving under the Odéon arcade I was stopped by Paul Meurice, who was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly, on behalf of Victor Hugo, to a supper to celebrate the one hundredth performance of _Ruy Blas_. “I have just come from your house,” he said. “I have left you a few lines from Victor Hugo.” “Good, good; that’s all right,” I replied, getting into my carriage. “I shall see you to-morrow then, my friend.” “Good Heavens, what a hurry you are in!” he said. “Yes!” I replied, and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my coachman, “Drive to the Comédie Française.” I looked at Paul Meurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied on the arcade steps. On arriving at the Comédie I sent my card to Perrin, and five minutes later was ushered in to that icy mannikin. There were two very distinct personages in this man. The one was the man he was himself, and the other the one he had created for the requirements of his profession. Perrin himself was gallant, pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the mannikin was cold, and somewhat given to posing.