Meilhac went to live that summer in the Pavillion Henri IV at Saint-Germain. I used to surprise him there about five o'clock in the afternoon, when I knew the day's work would be done. Then, as we walked, we worked out new arrangements in the words of the opera. Here we decided on the Seminaire act, and, to bring off a greater contrast at the end of it, I demanded the act of Transylvania. How pleased I was in this collaboration, in that work in which we exchanged ideas with never a clash, in the mutual desire of reaching perfection if possible. Philippe Gille shared in this useful collaboration from time to time, and his presence was dear to me. What tender, pleasing memories I have of this time at Saint-Germain, with its magnificent terrace, and the luxuriant foliage of its beautiful forest. My work was well along when I had to return to Brussels at the beginning of the summer of 1882. During my different sojourns at Brussels I made a delightful friend in Frédérix, who showed rare mastery of the pen in his dramatic and lyric criticism in the columns of the _Indépendance belge_. He occupied a prominent position in journalism in his own country and was highly appreciated as well by the French press. He was a man of great worth, endowed with a charming character. His expressive, spirituel, open countenance rather reminded me of the oldest of the Coquelins. He was among the first of those dear good friends I have known whose eyes have closed in the long sleep, alas! and who are no more either for me or for those who loved them. Our Salome, Martha Duvivier, had continued to sing the rôle in _Hérodiade_ throughout the new season, and had installed herself for the summer in a country house near Brussels. My friend Frédérix carried me off there one day and, as I had the manuscript of the first acts of _Manon_ with me, I risked an intimate reading before him and our beautiful interpreter. The impression I took away with me was an encouragement to keep on with the work. The reason I returned to Belgium at this time was that I had been invited to go to Holland under conditions which were certainly amusing. A Dutch gentleman, a great lover of music, with phlegm more apparent than real, as is often the case with those Rembrandt's country sends us, made me the most singular visit, as unexpected as it well could be. He had learned that I was working on the romance of the Abbé Prevost, and he offered to install my penates at the Hague, in the very room in which the Abbé had lived. I accepted the offer, and I went and shut myself up--this was during the summer of 1882--in the room which the author of _Les Memories d'un homme de qualité_ had occupied. His bed, a great cradle, shaped like a gondola, was still there.