"Strange to say, it did not emerge," he said. "I have not been able to find it yet." "It will arrive," we cried, with conviction. "There should be an excellent story in that." "Ah, certainly it will arrive. My only misgiving is that I am not worthy to treat it. It should be a gem, that story, a masterpiece. It should be a story that will live.... All the same, it piques me that, with such a stimulus to write, I should have to wait, even for an hour. I am athirst to begin." "You will strike the idea before you go to bed," I assured him. "Even I, though fiction is not my line, can see a story there." "You can see it?" he inquired eagerly. "I do not mean that I see the plot. But I see the prospects." "Ah, yes, that is how it is with _me_," he said. "The prospects are magnificent, aren't they? What delight I shall take in this! I may not be capable of handling it as well as it deserves, but you are going to see the best short story I have ever done, mon vieux." Well, changes in the staff transferred me abruptly to London soon after that, and I had no further conversation on the subject with Jacques till nearly five months had passed. The interval had threatened to be longer still, but one must eat. Why can't you cut an English cook's throat? If you don't know the answer you are unaware that in England they placidly consume anything that is put on their plates. Because there are no English cooks. I should like frequently to sojourn in the beautiful countryside of England, if it were not so painful to see vegetables growing there. When I looked at those verdant young things, so full of flavour and nutriment, and thought of the fate before them--reflected that they were destined to be drowned in hogsheads of water, and served as an unpalatable pulp, the sight of them used to wring my heart. I overtook Jacques in the Champs Élysées one day, as I was on my way to call on Henri and Elise, and we strolled along together. I said: "I rather thought you would send me a copy of that story you were speaking of before I went. What paper was it published in?" To my amazement, he replied gloomily: "It is not written. I am seeking the plot for it." "What?" I exclaimed. "Not written? After five months? If you could turn out other stories in the meantime, why not that one?" "I have not turned out other stories in the meantime," he told me. "I am concentrating my imagination on the pot of pansies." I stopped and stared at him. "Ah, ça! Are you in earnest? Mon Dieu! It looked very promising, but if you mean to spend the rest of your life trying to write it, the promise will cost you dear."