Was not Jupiter thundering in the heavens, _Caelo tonantem Jovem_, as Horace says in the Odes. For a moment I could believe that such was the case, but what was my surprise--my very agreeable surprise--when I saw get down from that thundering sixty miles an hour two travelers, who, if they did not come from heaven, nevertheless let me hear the accents of Paradise in their friendly voices. One was Gailhard, the director of the Opéra, and the other the learned architect of the Garnier monument. My director had come to ask me how I was getting on with _Ariane_ and if I were willing to let the Opéra have it. We went up to my large room which with its yellow hangings of the period might have easily been taken for that of a general of the First Empire. I at once pointed out a heap of pages on a large black marble table--the whole of the finished score. At lunch, between the sardines of the hors d'oeuvre and the cheese of the dessert, I declaimed several situations in the work. Then my guests, put in a charming humor, were good enough to accept my invitation to make a tour of the property. It was while we paced under the pergola of which I have spoken, in the delightfully fresh, thick shade of the vines whose leaves formed a verdant network that we settled on the cast. Lucienne Bréval was to have the rôle of Ariane; Louise Grandjean that of the dramatic Phèdre, and by common consent, in view of her talent for tragedy and her established success at the Opéra, we decided on Lucy Arbell for the rôle of the somber, beautiful Queen of Hell. Muratore and Delmas were plainly indicated for Thésée and Pirithoüs. As he was going away, Gailhard, remembering the simple, confiding formula by which our fathers made contracts in the good old days, plucked a branch from a eucalyptus in the garden and said, waving it at me: "This is the token of the promises we have exchanged to-day. I carry it with me." Then my guests got into their auto and disappeared in the whirling dust of the road. Did they carry away to the great city the near realization of my dearest hopes, was what I asked myself as I climbed to my room. I was tired and worn out by the emotions of the day and I went to bed. The sun still shone on the horizon in all the glory of its fire. It crimsoned my bed with its dazzling rays. I dreamt as I slept the most beautiful dream that can delude us when a task has been fulfilled. * * * * * I now record a detail which is of some importance. My little Marie Magdeleine came to Égreville to spend a few days with her grandparents. I yielded to her curiosity and told her the story of the piece. I had reached the place where Ariane is drawn into Hell to find the wandering soul of her sister Phèdre, and as I stopped, my grand-child exclaimed at once: "And now grandpapa we are going to be in Hell!"