A few days later I crossed and wired to him from Calais to dine with me at Durand’s, and to begin dinner if I happened to be late.

While waiting for dinner, I said: 

“I want to stay two or three days in Paris to see some pictures.  Would you be ready to start South on Thursday next?” It was then Monday, I think.

“On Thursday?” he repeated.  “Yes, Frank, I think so.”

“There is some money for anything you may want to buy,” I said and handed him a cheque I had made payable to self and signed, for he knew where he could cash it.

“How good of you, Frank, I cannot thank you enough.  You start on Thursday,” he added, as if considering it.

“If you would rather wait a little,” I said, “say so:  I’m quite willing.”

“No, Frank, I think Thursday will do.  We are really going to the South for the whole winter.  How wonderful; how gorgeous it will be.”

We had a great dinner and talked and talked.  He spoke of some of the new Frenchmen, and at great length of Pierre Louys, whom he described as a disciple: 

“It was I, Frank, who induced him to write his ‘Aphrodite’ in prose.”  He spoke, too, of the Grand Guignol Theatre.

“Le Grand Guignol is the first theatre in Paris.  It looks like a nonconformist chapel, a barn of a room with a gallery at the back and a little wooden stage.  There you see the primitive tragedies of real life.  They are as ugly and as fascinating as life itself.  You must see it and we will go to Antoine’s as well:  you must see Antoine’s new piece; he is doing great work.”

We kept dinner up to an unconscionable hour.  I had much to tell of London and much to hear of Paris, and we talked and drank coffee till one o’clock, and when I proposed supper Oscar accepted the idea with enthusiasm.

“I have often lunched with you from two o’clock till nine, Frank, and now I am going to dine with you from nine o’clock till breakfast to-morrow morning.”

“What shall we drink?” I asked.

“The same champagne, Frank, don’t you think?” he said, pulling his jowl; “there is no wine so inspiring as that dry champagne with the exquisite bouquet.  You were the first to say my plays were the champagne of literature.”

When we came out it was three o’clock and I was tired and sleepy with my journey, and Oscar had drunk perhaps more than was good for him.  Knowing how he hated walking I got a voiture de cercle and told him to take it, and I would walk to my hotel.  He thanked me and seemed to hesitate.

“What is it now?” I asked, wanting to get to bed.

“Just a word with you,” he said, and drew me away from the carriage where the chasseur was waiting with the rug.  When he got me three or four paces away he said, hesitatingly: 

“Frank, could you ... can you let me have a few pounds?  I’m very hard up.”

I stared at him; I had given him a cheque at the beginning of the dinner:  had he forgotten?  Or did he perchance want to keep the hundred pounds intact for some reason?  Suddenly it occurred to me that he might be without even enough for the carriage.  I took out a hundred franc note and gave it to him.