"What are you sitting there for like that?" asked his son.
"Can't you see? I am resting."
"Did you get your sleep?"
"No, I didn't; it's impossible to sleep here. There is an infernal noise; what with the sheep, the cows, the pigs, and the rest, there is no chance of getting a wink."
"So you have been sitting here for the last four hours, twirling your thumbs?"
"No, I have been writing a piece in one act." The piece in question was "Romulus," which he gave to Régnier to have it read at the Comédie-Française, under a pseudonym, and as the work of a young unknown author. It was accepted without a dissentient vote.
It is a well-known fact, vouched for by the accounts of the Compagnie du Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest, that during the three years Dumas lived at Saint-Germain, the receipts increased by twenty thousand francs per annum. Of course, it has been objected that railways being then in their infancy the increment would have been just the same without Dumas' presence in the royal residence, but, curiously enough, from the day he left, the passenger traffic fell to its previous state. Dumas had simply galvanized the sleepy old town into life, he had bought the theatre where the artists of the Comédie-Française, previous to supping with him, came to play "Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle" or the "Demoiselles de Saint-Cyr," for the benefit of the poor. On such occasions, there was not a room to be had at the hotels. After supper, there were twice a week fireworks on the Terrace, which could be seen from Paris and from Versailles, to the great astonishment of Louis-Philippe, who really attributed the change to the beneficence of his reign, although he failed to account for the continued dulness of the latter royal borough, where he himself resided, and whose picture-galleries he had restored and thrown open to the public, besides having the great fountains to play every first Sunday of the month.
One day the king sent for M. de Montalivet, and told him that, though gratified at the revived prosperity of Saint-Germain, he would like to see a little more gaiety at Versailles.
"You really mean it, sire?" asked the minister.
"Not only do I mean it, but I confess to you that it would give me great pleasure."