An erudite actor admitted to me that he had liked only one statue in all his life: _The Squatting Scribe_, sculptured by an Egyptian, long before Jesus-Christ, and which he saw in the Louvre. But they are beginning to talk much less of Scribe, and yet he still reigns over the theatre. THE THEATRE Do not forget the final scene, nor the words at the end, nor the fact that the more crust you have the more you shine, nor that a number that is cited must end in 7 or 3 in order to seem accurate; nor not to lend money to anybody who says: "I have five acts at the Odéon," or "I have three acts at the Comédie-Française," nor to say carelessly: "If you want some free passes, I have so many of them, that I am obliged to give them to my concierge;" that doesn't lead to anything. A young man at this point made good the occasion to come and sing with equivocal gestures and a lascivious air, some childish and entrancing songs. M. PINGU What juice, sir! M. LACOUFF Juice of the hat? M. PINGU No-no! I am mistaken. What a fluid! He trembles like the paunch of an archbishop. M. LACOUFF Use the proper word, not your paunch. M. PINGU What a joy, sir, what a joy! It would soften a crocodile to tears and would please a scholar as well as a financier. CRONIAMANTAL Good-bye, gentlemen, I am your devoted servant. With your permission I will return in a few days. I feel that my play is not in proper shape yet. [Illustration 04] XII. LOVE On a spring morning, Croniamantal, following the instructions of the Bird of Benin, reached the Meudon woods and stretched himself out in the shade of a tree whose branches hung very low. CRONIAMANTAL God I am tired, not of walking but of being alone. I am thirsty--not for wine, hydromel or beer, but for water, fresh water from that lovely wood where the grass and the trees are rose at every dawn, but where no spring arrests the progress of the parched traveller. The walk has sharpened my appetite; I am hungry, though not for the flesh nor for fruit, but for bread, good solid bread, swollen like mammals, bread, round as the moon and gilded as she. He arose then. He went deep into the woods and came to the clearing, where he was to meet Tristouse Ballerinette. The damsel had not yet arrived. Croniamantal longed for a fountain and his imagination, or perhaps some sorcerer's talent in himself which he had never suspected, caused a limpid water suddenly to flow among the grass. Croniamantal flung himself down and drank avidly, when he heard the voice of a woman singing far off: _Dondidondaine 'Tis the shepherdess beloved of the king Who has gone to the fountain Dondidondaine In the dewy fields, all blossoming To the fountain But here comes Croquemitaine To the fountain And Hickorydock! advance no further._ CRONIAMANTAL