“M. de Rochefort, you are not listening to me.” “Eh—what! Where am I—ah, yes, go on, go on—you were saying that you had torn up a play.” “In order to write a better one, and I am introducing you as one of my characters.” “You are putting me in your play?” “Yes, monsieur, I am putting you in my play.” “Well, M. Ferminard, I forbid it, that’s all. I will not be put in a play.” “But I am putting myself in also, monsieur.” “_Bon Dieu_! what impudence!” “It is not impudence, but gratitude, monsieur. I will not hide it from you that, despite what brains I have, I am of small extraction; one of the _rafataille_, as they say in the south. But you have always talked to me as your equal; and if I have put myself in the same piece as you it is only as your servant, imprisoned in the next cell to you in the dungeons of the castle of Pompadiglione.” “And where the devil is Pompadiglione?” “It is the name of the castle in my play. Well, monsieur, the first scene is just as it is here, now. The count and his servant, imprisoned just as we are in adjoining cells, with a hole in the partition wall through which they can speak to one another, and the servant has discovered a knotted rope, a big sou and a staple just as I have discovered them. Well, monsieur, the count is to be beheaded, and his execution is fixed for the next day, but the faithful servant hands him through the hole in the wall the means for escape, the rope, the big sou containing a saw, and the staple. The count escapes that night.” “One moment, M. Ferminard, you say he escaped that night?” “Yes, monsieur.” “How did he escape?” “He escaped by cutting away the bar of his cell with the little saw contained in the sou.” “Oh. And do you fancy he could do that in one night?” “Not in reality, monsieur, but on the stage he could.” “Ah, well, I know nothing of these things—well, he escapes, this count—what then?” “Next morning his escape is discovered and the faithful servant—that is me—refuses to give any explanation, though the hole in the wall has been discovered—he is dumb.” “Dumb—good heavens, M. Ferminard—that part would never suit you.” “Pardon me, monsieur, but I believe it would—well, as I was saying, the count, who had indeed escaped by means of the rope from his cell, had not managed to escape from the precincts of the castle. The rope was not long enough and he had to take refuge on a ledge where he is shown in the next scene crouching and watching the faithful servant being led forth to execution in his place.” “Well?” “That is as far as I have got, monsieur.” “Oh, you have not fixed on the end of your play yet?” “No, monsieur.” “But surely, M. Ferminard, the end is the most important thing in a play?” Ferminard coughed, irritated, as all geniuses are by criticism. “Why,” said he, “I thought monsieur said he could not tell a play from a washing-bill.”