He had already met Bercail in the Luxembourg, but he had never spoken to him. Bercail was feeling rather out of it in this milieu into which Olivier had introduced him, and which he was too timid not to find distasteful, and every time Olivier presented him as one of the chief contributors to the _Vanguard_, he blushed. The fact is, that the allegorical poem of which he had spoken to Olivier at the beginning of our story, was to appear on the first page of the new review, immediately after the manifesto. “In the place I had kept for you,” said Olivier to Bernard. “I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s by far the best thing in the number. And so original!” Olivier took more pleasure in praising his friends than in hearing himself praised. At Bernard’s approach, Bercail rose; he was holding his cup of coffee in his hand so awkwardly, that in his agitation he spilled half of it down his waistcoat. At that moment, Jarry’s mechanical voice was heard close at hand: “Little Bercail will be poisoned. I’ve put poison in his cup.” Bercail’s timidity amused Jarry, and he liked putting him out of countenance. But Bercail was not afraid of Jarry. He shrugged his shoulders and finished his coffee calmly. “Who is that?” asked Bernard. “What! Don’t you know the author of _Ubu Roi_?” “Not possible! _That_ Jarry? I took him for a servant.” “Oh, all the same,” said Olivier, a little vexed, for he took a pride in his great men. “Look at him more carefully. Don’t you think he’s extraordinary?” “He does all he can to appear so,” said Bernard, who only esteemed what was natural, and who nevertheless was full of consideration for _Ubu_. Everything about Jarry, who was got up to look like the traditional circus clown, smacked of affectation--his way of talking in particular; several of the _Argonauts_ did their utmost to imitate it, snapping out their syllables, inventing odd words, and oddly mangling others; but it was only Jarry who could succeed in producing that toneless voice of his--a voice without warmth or intonation, or accent or emphasis. “When one knows him, he is charming, really,” went on Olivier. “I prefer not to know him. He looks ferocious.” “Oh, that’s just the way he has. Passavant thinks that in reality he is the kindest of creatures. But he has drunk a terrible lot to-night; and not a drop of water, you may be sure--nor even of wine; nothing but absinthe and spirits. Passavant’s afraid he may do something eccentric.” In spite of himself, Passavant’s name kept recurring to his lips, and all the more obstinately that he wanted to avoid it. Exasperated at feeling so little able to control himself, and as if he were trying to escape from his own pursuit, he changed his ground: