the discussion, the illustrious company, that overwhelmed me in a rapture of wonder and respectful admiration.  Then came the anecdotes.  They were of all sorts.  Here are a few specimens:  He, Duval, had written a one-act piece with Dumas pere; it had been refused at the Francais, and then it had been about, here, there, and everywhere; finally the Varietes had asked for some alterations, and c’etait une affaire entendue.  “I made the alterations one afternoon, and wrote to Dumas, and what do you think,—­by return of post I had a letter from him saying he could not consent to the production of a one-act piece, signed by him, at the Varietes, because his son was then giving a five-act piece at the Gymnase.”  Then came a string of indecent witticisms by Suzanne Lagier and Dejazet.  They were as old as the world, but they were new to me, and I was amused and astonished.  These bon-mots were followed by an account of how Gautier wrote his Sunday feuilleton, and how he and Balzac had once nearly come to blows.  They had agreed to collaborate.  Balzac was to contribute the scenario, Gautier the dialogue.  One morning Balzac came with the scenario of the first act.  “Here it is, Gautier!  I suppose you can let me have it back finished by to-morrow afternoon?” And the old gentleman would chirp along in this fashion till midnight.  I would then accompany him to his rooms in the Quartier Montmartre—­rooms high up on the fifth floor—­where, between two pictures, supposed to be by Angelica Kaufmann, M. Duval had written unactable plays for the last twenty years, and where he would continue to write unactable plays until God called him to a world, perhaps, of eternal cantatas, but where, by all accounts, l’exposition de la piece selon la formule de M. Scribe is still unknown.

How I used to enjoy these conversations!  I remember how I used to stand on the pavement after having bid the old gentleman good-night, regretting I had not demanded some further explanation regarding le mouvement Romantique, or la facon de M. Scribe de menager la situation.

Why not write a comedy?  So the thought came.  I had never written anything save a few ill-spelt letters; but no matter.  To find a plot, that was the first thing to do.  Take Marshall for hero and Alice for heroine, surround them with the old gentlemen who dined at the table d’hote, flavour with the Italian countess who smoked cigars when there were not too many strangers present.  After three weeks of industrious stirring, the ingredients did begin to simmer into something resembling a plot.  Put it upon paper.  Ah! there was my difficulty.  I remembered suddenly that I had read “Cain,” “Manfred,” “The Cenci,” as poems, without ever thinking of how the dialogue looked upon paper; besides, they were in blank verse.  I hadn’t a notion how prose dialogue would look upon paper.  Shakespeare I had never opened; no instinctive want had urged me to read him.  He