"Ah! But I have written for fees rather than for fame. It was not good enough to clothe my wife and children in rags because I aspired to wear laurels. The day I entreated Elise to marry a boy who had not five hundred francs, I was guilty of a crime. I have never forgotten the confidence she showed in me that day--nor her unwavering belief in me while times were bad. In truth, my wife has but one failing--she admires me to excess. According to her, every word I write, or speak, is inspired. But it is not odious to be worshipped. She is adorable. I ask myself what I should do without her. They may say some of the pieces I have done so far are of no account; I assure you I have had far more joy from scribbling a farce that bought smart costumes or a bracelet for Elise than I could have had from evolving classics that left her worried about the washing bill. Enfin, everything comes at last to him who waits--even a fine day in London, hein?--and now I have felt entitled to devote twelve months to a grand attempt. And, if it is well received--I do not romance when I say that, if it is well received, the thing that will make me proudest will be the admiration of my dear wife." While he talked on, opening his heart to us, we strode towards the Boulevard; and as we proceeded to the Boulevard, with never a premonition of disaster, it is not hyperbolic to affirm that all Paris would have failed to display a trio more united. Presently he inquired of Jacques: "Anything wrong with you? You are very quiet." "I search for a plot," sighed our friend; and was long-winded. "He has been able to think of nothing but the enchanting story that ought to blossom from that flower-pot, and doesn't," I explained. "By this time he might have----" "The points I ponder are three," Jacques broke in strenuously. "Who, in such environment, has the fingering sensibility to tend a pot of pansies? What does it express to her? How does it happen that she is there?" "I do not see anything in it," said Henri. "It has no action." "How the devil can it have action before there is a plot?" screamed Jacques. "I tell you, the atmosphere is superb." "It is a picture, not a story. There is no material in it," complained Henri. "You have everything to create, except the scene. The scene is good, but----" We were still discussing the question, sipping vermouth at a café, when someone exclaimed: "Ah, you! How goes it?" And, looking up, I saw that the cordial hand upon the dramatist's shoulder pertained to no less eminent a person than Martime himself. "Numa!" Henri was delighted; the more so when Martime consented to sit down at our table and sip an apéritif, too. "Permettez. Two of my oldest friends--monsieur Camus, of _L'Elan_; monsieur Rouelle, romancier."