night, though sordid considerations force me to remain corporally in my
attic. Transported by admiration, I even burst into frantic applause
there. How perfect is the sympathy between our souls!"

"Listen, my little one," she said. "I am sorry for your relatives, if
you have any--your condition must be a great grief to them. But, all
the same, I cannot have you dangling after me and talking this bosh.
What do you suppose can come of it?"

"Fame shall come of it," averred the poet, "fame for us both! Do not
figure yourself that I am a dreamer. Not at all! I am practical, a man
of affairs. Are you content with your position in the Comedie Moderne?
No, you are not. You occupy a subordinate position; you play the role
of a waiting-maid, which is quite unworthy of your genius, and
understudy the ingenue, who is a portly matron in robust health. The
opportunity to distinguish yourself appears to you as remote as Mars.
Do I romance, or is it true?"

"It is true," she said. "Well?"

"Well, I propose to alter all this--I! I have the intention of writing
a great tragedy, and when it is accepted, I shall stipulate that you,
and you alone, shall thrill Paris as my heroine. When the work of my
brain has raised you to the pinnacle for which you were born, when the
theatre echoes with our names, I shall fall at your feet, and you will
murmur, 'Gustave--I love thee!'"

"Why does not your mother do something?" she asked. "Is there nobody to
place you where you might be cured? A tragedy? Imbecile, I am
comedienne to the finger-tips! What should I do with your tragedy, even