“An actor, monsieur; he is a great actor. He belonged to the Théâtre Molière; but he quarrelled with the director, and the quarrel came to blows, and Ferminard wounded the director. Yes, monsieur, he would now be in prison only for Monsieur de Sartines, who took an interest in him, having seen him act. Ah, monsieur, he was a great actor. But he was not content to be an actor. Oh, no! What does he do but write a comedy himself, to beat Molière? And what does he do but get the ear of the Duc de la Vrillière and his permission to produce this precious comedy at Versailles, with Court ladies and gentlemen to act in it. If he had acted himself in it, the thing would have been saved, but belonging to the Théâtre Molière, he was bound by agreement not to act elsewhere. “Well, monsieur, the thing went so badly that he abused the actors and actresses when they came off the stage, and, as a result, he was caned by Monsieur de Coigny.” “Ah!” said Rochefort, “I heard something of that; but I was away from Paris, and I did not hear the details. He abused them. _Mordieu_! that’s good.” “Yes, monsieur. I had the story from his own mouth. He told Madame de Duras, who was acting as one of his precious shepherdesses, that her head was as wooden as her legs. As for me, I would have been a mouse among all that company; but he—he does not care for the King himself; and so outraged does he feel even still, that could he burn Versailles down and all it contains he would be happy. He is not the man to forgive the strokes of Monsieur de Coigny’s cane. Your health, monsieur! Still the pity is that the fault was not with the actors, but with the play. It is common sense, besides. I, for instance, am a very good man at selling that wine you are drinking. But if I were to go to Anjou and try to make that wine, I would not be good at the business. Just so! A man may be a very good actor, and yet may not be able to write a play that another man could act well in.” A sudden burst of laughter from the adjoining room cut Turgis short. “What is up now, I wonder?” said he. “He seems laughing at something that Monsieur Lavenne is telling him,” said Rochefort, whose interest in the whole affair had suddenly taken on an extra keenness, and who was deeply puzzled by a business of which he could find no possible explanation. “Come, refill your glass! You deserve to drink such good wine since you choose to sell it.” The landlord did as he was told without the slightest trace of unwillingness, and they sat talking on indifferent matters till the door of the next room suddenly opened and Lavenne appeared. He took Rochefort outside the inn to the roadway, where the carriage was still in waiting. “Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “I have arranged everything with Ferminard. But it is absolutely necessary that he should go to the Rue de Valois in such a fashion that no one can recognize him. Will you, therefore, take your seat in the carriage, and he will join you in a few minutes.”