Of course, no mere “running over” of the great name of Rostand. Both of us soon found ourselves reciting passages from _Cyrano_, _Chantecler_, _La Princesse Lointaine_—my friend eloquently and emotionally, myself alas! with the natural embarrassment and self-consciousness of the foreigner. “Au trot, au galop,” said my companion, glancing at the clock. And rapidly we proceeded to review the “formidable list” of France’s leading dramatists:—Paul Hervieu, the cultured, polished author of _Le Dédale_ and _La Course au Flambeau_. Violent, destructive Henri Bernstein—_La Griffe_, _La Rafale_, _Samson_. Henri Lavedan, brilliantly audacious in _Le Nouveau Jeu_, delightfully ironical in the _Marquis de Priola_, but serious, profound (a veritable _tour de force_) in _Le Duel_. Then Capus, the tolerant, the sympathetic: _Nôtre Jeunesse_, _Les Passagères_, _Monsieur Piégois_. Émile Fabre, wonderful manipulator of stage “crowds,” _Les Ventres Dorés_. Lively, brilliant de Flers and Caillavet, _Le Roi_, _L’Ane de Buridan_, _L’Amour Veille_. Worldly, cynical Abel Hermant, _Les Transatlantiques_, _Monsieur de Courpière_. Jules Lemaître, tender in _La Massière_, tragical in _Bertrad_. Brieux: the amusing _Hannetons_, sombre, harrowing _Maternité_. Georges Porto-Riche, _L’Amoureuse_, perhaps the finest modern comedy in the repertoire of the French National Theatre. Sound admirable Donnay, _Amants_, _Le Retour de Jérusalem_. Anatole France, the incomparable _Crainquebille_. MM. Arquillière and Bernède, with their masterly pictures of military life, _La Grande Famille_, _Sous l’Epaulette_. Romantic, vigorous Jean Richepin, _Le Chemineau_. Sardonic, anarchical Octave Mirbeau, _Les Affaires sont les Affaires_, _Le Foyer_. Humane, chivalrous Pierre Wolff, _L’Age d’Aimer_ and _Le Ruisseau_. Georges Ancey, earnest investigator into the hidden crafty practices of the Catholic Church, _Ces Messieurs_. Gentle, elegant Romain Coolus, _L’Enfant chérie_ and _Une Femme Passa_. Grim, lurid André de Lorde of the Grand Guignol. Ardent, passionate Henri Bataille, _Un Scandale_, _La Vierge Folle_, _La Femme Nue_. “Formidable, formidable!” exclaimed our Paris journalist, wiping his brow. “There remains M. Paul Bourget,” I said. “M. Paul Bourget is ponderous, prejudiced, pedantic,” objected my companion. “I have just seen his latest photograph, which shows him seated at his writing-desk in a frock coat. Novels of life in the Faubourg St Germain, such as M. Bourget has produced, may possibly be written in a frock coat—_not_ plays.” “No doubt the coat was only put on for the visit of the photographer,” I charitably suggested. “M. Paul Bourget’s plays convey the impression—no, the conviction—that they were written in the conventional, cramped armour of a frock coat,” was the solemn, categorical retort.