the
name of the Gerards, but this time the suspicious look and singular
tone of the young painter, as he inquired about them, made the poet
feel genuinely uneasy. He was impressed, above all, by Maurice's simple
exclamation, "Ah!" which seemed to him to be enigmatical and mysterious.
But nonsense! all this was foolish; his friend's questions were
perfectly natural.

"Shall we pass the evening together, my dear Maurice?"

"It is impossible this evening," replied Maurice, still continuing his
walk. "A duty--I have an engagement."

Amedee had the feeling that he had come at an unfortunate time, and
discreetly took his departure. Maurice had seemed indifferent and less
cordial than usual.

"What is the matter with him?" said the poet to himself several times,
while dining in the little restaurant in the Latin Quarter. He afterward
went to the Comedie Francaise, to kill time, as well as to inquire
after his drama of Jocquelet, who played that evening in 'Le Legataire
Universel'.

The comedian received him in his dressing-room, being already arrayed
in Crispin's long boots and black trousers. He was seated in his
shirt-sleeves be fore his toilet-table, and had just pasted over his
smooth lips the bristling moustache of this traditional personage.
Without rising, or even saying "Good-day," he cried out to the poet as
he recognized him in the mirror.

"No news as to your piece! The manager has not one moment to himself;
we are getting ready for the revival of Camaraderie. But we shall be
through with it in two days, and then--"

And immediately, talking to hear himself talk, and to exercise his
terrible organ, he belched out, like the noise from an opened dam, a
torrent of commonplace things. He praised Scribe's works, which they
had put on the stage again; he announced that the famous Guillery, his
senior in the comedy line, would be execrable in this performance, and
would make a bungle of it. He complained of being worried to death
by the pursuit of a great lady--"You know, stage box Number Six," and
showed, with a conceited gesture, a letter, tossed in among the jars of
paint and pomade, which smelled of musk. Then, ascending to subjects
of a more elevated order, he scored the politics of the Tuileries, and
scornfully exposed the imperial corruption while recognizing that this
"poor Badingue," who, three days before, had paid a little compliment to
the actor, was of more account than his surroundings.

The poet w