Mademoiselle de Perle: “I myself, like everybody else, was once madly in love with you,” and to withered old Joyeux: “Those winks and grins of yours were excruciating,” and—— But an end to this digression. The scene between Coquelin _aîné_ and his superannuated “guests” is cut short by the arrival, from the hotel in the rue de Rivoli, of the author of _Chantecler_. Well, Constant Coquelin was wearing a dressing-gown and a skull-cap, because he felt a little “fatigued.” But the visits of M. Rostand, and of the wig-makers, scene-painters and costumiers, as well as the impatience of the Parisians to behold the new “masterpiece,” restored to the comedian all his former energy, enthusiasm. Final resolutions were made. The first rehearsal at the Porte St-Martin Theatre was fixed for the following week; the first performance would be given, irrevocably, in the middle of May. “What a triumph we shall have!” said Coquelin _aîné_ to the few friends he received in the Home. “Ah, my admirable Gillett, what a work of genius is _Chantecler_!” he exclaimed, when the devoted valet lighted him to his bedroom. “Listen, I will recite to you Rostand’s _Hymn to the Sun_. And after that, my good Gillett, you shall hear me crow.” Replied faithful Gillett: “To-morrow—not to-night. It is wiser to go to sleep.” But Constant Coquelin refused to sleep until he had recited and crowed. Up and down the room, in the dressing-gown and skull-cap, he strutted. The superannuated actors and actresses were awakened by his cry: “Je t’adore, Soleil!” Five minutes later there resounded throughout the Home a clarion, peremptory—“Cocorico.” Said the old players: “The master is rehearsing.” Said Gillett: “Your old servant insists upon your going to bed.” Said Coquelin _aîné_: “When I have played Chantecler I shall retire from the stage, and you and I, my faithful Gillett, will pass the rest of our lives down here, tranquilly, happily, amidst our twenty old guests.” But next morning, after Gillett had helped his master into the dressing-gown, Constant Coquelin fell heavily to the floor. Cry after cry from admirable Gillett, cries from the superannuated players—then profound silence and gloom. Gloom, too, in Paris. The blinds darkly drawn in the windows of the first floor of the rue de Rivoli hotel. The Porte St-Martin—other theatres—closed. All kinds of _soirées_, banquets and fêtes postponed. “What a disaster, what a tragedy, _mon ami_; what a blow, what a calamity, _ma chère_.” Gloom—dear, wonderful Coquelin _aîné_ was dead....