"Rather remote from the dramatic world?" I suggested, smiling; "something of a drawback, is it not?" His simplicity in crediting me with the notion of recruiting the Suprême from a travelling theatre tickled me nearly to death. "A grave drawback, monsieur," he agreed. "But I am not alone--I have a child, and she is too delicate to thrive in a city." "A good many delicate children have thriven in Paris," I remarked. "In thriving households, monsieur--in healthy quarters. Paris is dear, and I am poor--_my_ child would be condemned to a slum. I should see her lade away. Better to be a barnstormer all my life than lose my child. She is all I have left to love." "There is your art," I said, humbugging him. "My art?" He gave an hysterical laugh. A nervous, jumpy fellow, without a particle of repose. "Listen, monsieur, listen. I am an actor, and if I could demolish the barrier that keeps me out, I might be a great one; but I confess to you that I would abandon art and cast figures on an office stool, or break flints on a road, and thank God for the exchange, if it would buy my child a home! I want money. I want to give my child the comforts that other children have. That's _my_ ambition. I have no loftier pose than fatherhood. My prayer is, not applause, and compliments, and notoriety, not the petty pleasure of hearing I have equalled one favourite or eclipsed another; my prayer is--to give things to my child! I want to buy her nourishing food, and a physician's advice, and the education of a gentlewoman. I want the money to send her to the South when it snows, and to the mountains when it's hot. I want to see her laughing in a garden, like the rich men's children in Paris that you spoke of. I stand and watch them sometimes--when I go there to beg at stage doors till an understrapper kicks me out." "Well, well, the sort of things you desire are not so expensive," I said suavely. "Some day your salary may provide them all." "You think it possible, monsieur? Really?" His haggard eyes devoured me. "You have only to make one success. After that, you will be grossly overpaid, like every other star." "If I could but do it!" he gasped. "If I could only convince a Paris manager that I have it in me! Year after year I've hoped, and tried, and failed to get a hearing. You may judge my desperation by my audacity in stopping you in the streets. What course is open to me--what steps can I take? Even now, when I am pouring out my heart to monsieur Panage himself, how much does it advance me?" He was not so simple as I had thought. "Enfin--by the way, what is your name?" "My name is Paul Manesse, monsieur." "Well, monsieur, you must surely understand that until I have seen you act I cannot be of any service to you?" "I could rehearse on approval," he pleaded.