"Whatever you like, monsieur." "Do you mean I am to do what I like?" "Yes ... until fresh work comes, when I will put it on your desk, and you can then set to work on it." "And in my spare moments?..." "Young man, young man! at your age you ought not to waste a single moment." "I am quite of your opinion, monsieur, and you will be convinced of my industry if you will let me finish...." "Ah! ah!" "I want to know if I may work at my tragedy in my spare time?" Notice that I said _tragedy_ instead of _drama_; I did not wish to frighten M. Bichet. "Are you composing a tragedy, then?" he said. "Hum!... I do not know whether I ought to tell you." "Why not? I see no harm in it. My old friend Pieyre has written a comedy." "Yes, monsieur, and a very striking one it is: _l'École des Pères._" "You know it?" "I have read it." "Good.... Then, too, another old friend of mine, Parseval de Grandmaison, writes epic poetry." "Yes--_Philippe-Auguste_, for instance." "You have read it?" "No, I confess I have not." "Well then, let me say that although the one writes comedies and the other epic poems, they are none the less worthy men for all that." "On the contrary, monsieur, they are both excellent fellows." "Have you met them?" "Never." "Hum ... Hum...." And M. Bichet seemed to be thinking over something to himself. "Good!..." he said, after a moment's silence. "Then, monsieur, you have nothing more to say to me at present?" "Nothing." "Of course I shall be at my desk, and if you want me...." "Certainly; you can go." I resumed my seat with delight. Except for losing Lassagne and Ernest, my disgrace resolved itself into a privilege. The office-boy warned me that if I arrived before eleven o'clock, I should not find him there, and if I stayed past four he would lock me in when he went. So, no more portfolios to make up, all my evenings to myself, and a chief who did not prevent me from writing tragedies! And, forthwith, I set to work on _Christine._ I cannot say how long I had been working when the office-boy came to tell me that M. Bichet wanted me in his office. I went in at once. M. Bichet was not alone this time; on his right stood a short old man, and on his left a tall old man. As they stood there, the three judges, before whom I seemed about to be arraigned, looked not unlike Minis, Æacus and Rhadamanthus. I bowed, feeling considerably surprised. "See, there he is," said M. Bichet. "Upon my word, his handwriting is beautiful, it is exactly like Piron's, and he has done fifteen days' work in three." "What did you tell me monsieur did besides?" asked the tall old man. "Why, he writes poetry!" "Ah! yes, quite so, poetry...." A light dawned on me. "Have I the honour of addressing M. Parseval de Grandmaison?" I asked. "Yes, monsieur," he replied. Then, turning to the other old gentleman, he said-- "Only think, my dear Pieyre, I am so absent-minded, that the most extraordinary thing happened to me the other day."