“Certainly,” said Rochefort, who had drunk enough wine and on whom the conversation of the innkeeper had begun to pall. “And here is a louis to pay the score. He can keep the change.” “Thank you, monsieur,” said Lavenne. “You will see me no more, for my part in this business is now over.” “Well, then, good-day to you,” said the Comte, “and thank you for your pleasant company.” Lavenne bowed and returned to the inn, and Rochefort, telling his coachman to wait, got into the carriage. Five minutes passed, and then ten. He was becoming impatient, when from the inn door emerged an old man of miserable appearance who blinked at the sun, blinked at the carriage, and then came towards it and placed his hand on the door-handle. Rochefort, who did not care for the appearance of this person, was on the point of asking him what the devil he wanted, when he caught a glimpse of Lavenne at the inn door, nodding to him to indicate that all was right. Then he grasped the fact that this incredible mass of decrepitude was Ferminard. He helped the old fellow in, and the driver, who already had his instructions, turned his horses, whipped them up, and started off in the direction of the Faubourg St. Honoré. “Well, Monsieur Ferminard,” said Rochefort, laughing, “if I had not had the honour of seeing you when comparatively young, I would not have known you in your old age.” “Oh, that is nothing, monsieur,” said Ferminard; “to turn oneself into an old man is an easy matter. The great difficulty is for an actor to turn himself into a youth. Has Monsieur ever seen me act?” “Often,” said Rochefort, who, in fact, had little care for the theatre, and had never seen him act, “and I was charmed.” “Monsieur is very good to say so. As for me, I have never been charmed by my own acting, though ’twas passable enough; but the fact is, monsieur, I was not born an actor. I was born a dramatist.” “Oh, ho!” “Yes, monsieur, that is how fate treats one. My head is full of my creations; they seize me, and make me write. Ah! whilst I am writing, then I can act; if I were impersonating one of my own characters on the stage, then I could act. But when I have to play the part of some other man’s creation in character, then I feel a stick.” “You have written many plays?” “Numerous, monsieur,” said the greatest actor and worst dramatist in France. “I hear you had one staged in Versailles.” “Oh, _mon Dieu_!” said Ferminard. “All France knows that tale. Ah, _dame_, when I think of it, I could kick this coach to pieces—I could eat the world. Well, they shall be rewarded. Ferminard will have his revenge.” He laughed and slapped his thigh. They had entered the Rue de Pontoise, which led into the Rue de Valois. “And now, monsieur,” said Ferminard, “I will forget, if you please, that I am an actor, and remember that I am an old man.”