I recognized with a degree of satisfaction which you will easily comprehend, that not a single historian had been historical, and with still greater satisfaction that M. Thiers had been the least accurate of all these historians. I had already suspected this, but was not certain. The only one who had been accurate, with absolute accuracy, was Victor Hugo in his book called “The Rhine.” It is true that Victor Hugo is a poet and not a historian. What historians these poets would make, if they would but consent to become historians! One day Lamartine asked me to what I attributed the immense success of his “Histoire des Girondins.” “To this, because in it you rose to the level of a novel,” I answered him. He reflected for a while and ended, I believe, by agreeing with me. I spent a day, therefore, at Varennes and visited all the localities necessary for my novel, which was to be called “René d’Argonne.” Then I returned. My son was staying in the country at Sainte-Assise, near Melun; my room awaited me, and I resolved to go there to write my novel. I am acquainted with no two characters more dissimilar than Alexandre’s and mine, which nevertheless harmonize so well. It is true we pass many enjoyable hours during our separations; but none I think pleasanter than those we spend together. I had been installed there for three or four days endeavoring to begin my “René d’Argonne,” taking up my pen, then laying it aside almost immediately. The thing would not go. I consoled myself by telling stories. Chance willed that I should relate one which Nodier had told me of four young men affiliated with the Company of Jehu, who had been executed at Bourg in Bresse amid the most dramatic circumstances. One of these four young men, he who had found the greatest difficulty in dying, or rather he whom they had the greatest difficulty in killing, was but nineteen and a half years old. Alexandre listened to my story with much interest. When I had finished: “Do you know,” said he, “what I should do in your place?” “What?” “I should lay aside ‘René d’Argonne,’ which refuses to materialize, and in its stead I should write ‘The Companions of Jehu.’” “But just think, I have had that other novel in mind for a year or two, and it is almost finished.” “It never will be since it is not finished now.” “Perhaps you are right, but I shall lose six months regaining my present vantage-ground.” “Good! In three days you will have written half a volume.” “Then you will help me.” “Yes, for I shall give you two characters.” “Is that all?” “You are too exacting! The rest is your affair; I am busy with my ‘Question d’Argent.’” “Well, who are your two characters, then?” “An English gentleman and a French captain.” “Introduce the Englishman first.” “Very well.” And Alexandre drew Lord Tanlay’s portrait for me. “Your English gentleman pleases me,” said I; “now let us see your French captain.”