"Now, jot down the plan of the prologue for me on a slip of paper." "Why now?" "Because I shall come to the rendezvous with the prologue completed.... The more there is done the less will there be to do." "Capital! you shall have the outline to-morrow." "Oh! it will do if I have it just before I leave; if I have it to-morrow, I shall finish it the day after to-morrow, and that will cause trouble in the matter of the drama I am writing." "Very well; I will keep it ready for you." "Ah! one more favour." "Which is?" "Do not let us speak of _Richard Darlington_ again; I shall think of it quite enough, you need not fear, without talking about it." "We will not mention it again." And, as a matter of fact, from that moment, there was no reference made between us to _Richard Darlington_--I will not say as though it had never existed, but as though it never were to exist. On the other hand, _Charles VII._ went on its way. On 10 August I wrote the four last lines. "Vous qui, nés sur la terre, Portez comme des chiens, la chaîne héréditaire, Demeurez en hurlant près du sépulcre ou vert ... Pour Yakoub, il est libre, et retourne au désert!" When the work was finished, I read it over. It was, as I have said, more in the nature of a _pastiche_ than a true drama; but there was an immense advance in style between _Christine_ and _Charles VII._ True, _Christine_ is far superior to _Charles VII._ in imagination and in dramatic feeling. Nothing further kept me at Trouville. Beudin had preceded me to Paris several days before. We took leave of M. and Madame de la Garenne; we settled our accounts with Madame Oseraie and we started for Paris. Bonnechose accompanied us as far as Honfleur. He did not know how to part with us, poor fellow! He might have guessed that we were never to see each other again. The same night we took diligence from Rouen. Next day, at dawn, the travellers got down to climb a hillside; I thought I recognised, among our fellow-passengers, one of the editors of the _Journal des Débats._ I went up to him as he was coming towards me, and we got into conversation. "Well!" he said, "you have heard?" "What?" "_Marion Delorme_ has been performed." "Ah really?... And here am I hurrying to be present at the first performance!" "You will not see it ... and you will not have lost much." It was a matter of course that the editor of a journal so devoted an admirer of Hugo as was the _Journal des Débats_ should speak thus of the great poet. "Why do I not miss much? Has the play not succeeded?" "Oh! yes indeed! but coldly, coldly, coldly; and no money in it." My companion said this with the intense gratification of the critic taking his revenge upon the author, of the eunuch with his foot on the sultan's neck. "Cold? No money?" I repeated. "And besides, badly played!" "Badly played by Bocage and Dorval! Come now!"