"And what will M. Fossier say?" my poor mother exclaimed. "Oh!" I replied, suiting my words to the tune of _Malbrouck_, "M. Fossier can say whatever he likes, and if he is not satisfied, I will send him about his business!" "Take care, my dear lad," my mother replied, shaking her head; "it will be you who will be sent packing and in good earnest, too." "All right, mother; so much the better! It will give me time to attend my rehearsals." "And suppose your play is a failure, and you have lost your situation, what will become of us?" "I will write another play that will succeed." "But in the meantime we must live." "Ah yes! it's very unfortunate that one has to live; happily, in seven or eight days we shall receive something on account." "Yes, but while we are waiting for that, which you have not yet got, my lad, take my advice and return to your desk, so that no one may suspect anything, and do not boast of what has happened to a single person." "I fancy you are in the right, mother; and although I asked the whole day off from M. Deviolaine, I will return to my desk. It is half-past two. Why, I shall yet have time to despatch my day's work." And I set forth at a run to the rue Saint-Honoré. The exercise did me good, for I needed fresh air and action; I felt stifled in our tiny rooms. I found a pile of reports ready for me; I set to my task, and by six o'clock everything was finished. But by this time Féresse's anger against me amounted to hatred: I had compelled him to stay till the stroke of six before I had finished the last lines. I had never written so fast or so well. I re-read everything twice for fear I might have interpolated some lines from _Christine_ in the reports. But, as usual, they were innocent of poetic effusions. I gave them back to Féresse, who went with them to M. Fossier's office, growling like a bear. I then went home to my dear mother, quite spent and utterly exhausted with the great events of that day. It was 30 April 1828. I spent the evening, the night and the morning of the next day in rewriting my manuscript afresh. By ten o'clock, when I reached the Administration, I found Ferésse at the door of his office. He had been looking out for me since eight o'clock that morning, although he knew well enough that I never came before ten. "Ah! there you are," he said. "So you have been writing a tragedy, I hear." "Who told you that?" "Why, good gracious, it is in the newspaper." "In the paper?" "Yes, read it for yourself." And he handed me a paper which did, indeed, contain the following lines:-- "The Théâtre-Français to-day accepted with acclamation and unanimity a five-act tragedy in verse, by a young man who has not yet produced anything. This young man is in the administrative offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans, who made his path easy for him and who strongly recommended him to the Reading Committee."