To few men has it been given to see such a rapid change take place in their lives as took place in mine during those four hours of the representation of _Henri III._ I was totally unknown until that night, and, next day, whether for good or for evil, I was the talk of all Paris. From that night dated the hatreds of people whom I had never seen--hatreds roused by the unwelcome fame attached to my name. But friendships also dated from that epoch. What multitudes of people envied me that night, who had no idea that I spent it on a mattress on the floor by the side of my dying mother! Next day, the room was filled with bouquets; I covered my mother's bed with them, and she touched them with the hand that was left unparalysed, pulling them nearer to her or pushing them away, unconscious what all these flowers meant--and, possibly, even unconscious that they were flowers at all. By two o'clock in the afternoon, the day after the performance, my manuscript had sold for six thousand francs. These six thousand francs were paid me in six bank-notes; and I went to show them to M. Deviolaine. "What are those?" he asked. "They are the price of my manuscript," I replied. "You see it amounts to M. Laffitte's three thousand francs and three thousand francs besides." "What!" cried M. Deviolaine; "are there idiots who have bought it of you?" "You see for yourself." "Well, they are brainless idiots!" Then, handing me back the notes, and shrugging his shoulders, he said-- "You do not inquire how I am!" "I did not dare.... How are you?" "A little better, happily." "Were you able to return to the theatre?" "Yes, I was there for the conclusion." "Were you there when my name was given out?" "The deuce I was!" "And did it not give you a little gratification?" "A little! Why, you rascal, I wept like a baby!" "Come now! it cost you a lot to acknowledge that.... Let us shake hands." "Ah!" said M. Deviolaine, "if only your poor father could have been there!" "My mother could have been there if people had not made her so unhappy." "Come, come! you are not going to tell me that it is my fault your mother is in bed, are you? Good gracious me! it tormented me sufficiently during your representation. I could not think of anything else; I believe it was that which gave me the beastly colic.... By the bye, what are they saying in the office?" I showed him M. de Broval's letter. He read it through twice over. "Well, I never!..." he said, as he handed it me back, shrugging his shoulders. "Shall you return to the office?" "I? Dear me no!" "Well, I think you are right. Shall you go and see M. Fossier?". "No, indeed." "He likes you, nevertheless." "Then why did he not write me a letter of congratulation, too?" "Well, but he might have expected tickets for his daughter." "That reminds me. Shall I save you a box for the second performance? You hadn't a good place for the first ... you were close to the door."