"Sacré tonnerre!" I screamed. It was the last straw. That strolling player declined to "spare the time," that mountebank neglected Me! I saw crimson. I paced the room, raving. "What did he say?" I spluttered. "What were the ruffian's words?" "My man reports that the gentleman replied, 'Monsieur Panage must have had immense difficulty in recollecting my name. He would not stir an inch to save my life--why should _I_ take a walk for _him_?'" I sat down. I felt dizzy. I feared I was going to be extremely ill. The man himself seemed moved by my collapse--or increasingly uncertain of his position. He said, "Perhaps a note might be effectual? Alors, if monsieur wishes to write, I will wait." "Give me your fountain-pen, Beauregard." "But"--again the forefinger was uplifted--"there must be no secret instructions. I must be satisfied there is no private meaning in the note." "Good heavens! What am I permitted to say?" He pondered. "'To monsieur Paul Manesse: Monsieur----' Has monsieur written 'Monsieur'?" "Yes, yes; go on!" "'I am now convinced that you can act. I hereby engage you, at the trifling salary of two hundred and fifty francs a week, for prominent parts in my next three productions at the Théâtre Suprême.'" The silence was sensational. "Who the devil are you?" I stuttered, when I found my voice. "Paul Manesse, monsieur," he told me--"your new comedian, if you sign." I signed. You have heard how we boomed _Omphale_ and I found a star! That jolly little Manesse girl has a rich papa to-day. X PILAR NARANJO In one of the dullest towns of France, I sat with a Parisian at a variety show. A Frenchman, with a very grubby shirt-front, presented to the audience "Señorita Pilar Naranjo, the famous dancer of Madrid." My companion started dramatically, and whispered, "I pray you to pardon me--I shall adjourn to the bar till she has done." Of course, I followed him. "What's the matter?" "Do not ask me to watch her!" "Why?" "I could not support it." "She is so bad as all that?" "Bad? She is entrancing." "Oh! Did you see her when you were in Spain?" "In Paris, when I had come back. Have you read my _Sobs After Midnight_?" "No." "Buy it. It contains perhaps the most poignant poems that I have written--they are moans in metres for my loss of Pilar Naranjo." "You don't say so?" "She was the passion of my life." He struck an attitude. "Return to your seat alone, mon ami. For company I shall have my bitter thoughts." Civility forbade me to let him do all the acting, himself, and I said in solemn tones, "I shall remain by your side."