had remained, therefore, unread, unlooked at.  Should I buy a copy?  No; the name repelled me—­as all popular names repelled me.  In preference I went to the Gymnase, and listened attentively to a comedy by M. Dumas fils.  But strain my imagination as I would, I could not see the spoken words in their written form.  Oh, for a look at the prompter’s copy, the corner of which I could see when I leaned forward!  At last I discovered in Galignani’s library a copy of Leigh Hunt’s edition of the old dramatists, and after a month’s study of Congreve Wycherley, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar, I completed a comedy in three acts, which I entitled “Worldliness.”  It was, of course, very bad; but, if my memory serves me well, I do not think it was nearly so bad as might be imagined.

No sooner was the last scene written than I started at once for London, confident I should find no difficulty in getting my play produced.

CHAPTER III

Is it necessary to say that I did not find a manager to produce my play?  A printer was more attainable, and the correction of proofs amused me for a while.  I wrote another play; and when the hieing after theatrical managers began to lose its attractiveness my thoughts reverted to France, which always haunted me; and which now possessed me as if with the sweet and magnetic influence of home.

How important my absence from Paris seemed to me; and how Paris rushed into my eyes!—­Paris—­public ball-rooms, cafes, the models in the studio and the young girls painting, and Marshall, Alice, and Julien.  Marshall!—­my thoughts pointed at him through the intervening streets and the endless procession of people coming and going.

“M.  Marshall, is he at home?” “M.  Marshall left here some months ago.”  “Do you know his address?” “I’ll ask my husband.”  “Do you know M. Marshall’s address!” “Yes, he’s gone to live in the Rue de Douai.”  “What number?” “I think it is fifty-four.”  “Thanks.”  “Coachman, wake up; drive me to the Rue de Douai.”

But Marshall was not to be found at the Rue de Douai; and he had left no address.  There was nothing for it but to go to the studio; I should be able to obtain news of him there,—­perhaps find him.  But when I pulled aside the curtain, the accustomed piece of slim nakedness did not greet my eyes; only the blue apron of an old woman enveloped in a cloud of dust.  “The gentlemen are not here to-day, the studio is closed; I am sweeping up.”  “Oh, and where is M. Julien?” “I cannot say, sir:  perhaps at the cafe, or perhaps he is gone to the country.”  This was not very encouraging, and now, my enthusiasm thoroughly damped, I strolled along le Passage, looking at the fans, the bangles and the litter of cheap trinkets that each window was filled with.  On the left at the corner of the Boulevard was our cafe.  As I came forward the waiter moved one of the tin tables, and then I saw the fat Provencal.  But just as if he had seen me yesterday he said, “Tiens! c’est vous; une deme tasse? oui ... garcon, une deme tasse.” Presently the conversation turned on Marshall; they had not seen much of him lately. “Il parait qu’il est plus amoureux que jamais,” Julien replied sardonically.