"Well then," said M. Bichet, "come, now finish your story, my dear friend."
"What story?"
"Why, the story you were telling."
"Was I telling a story?"
"Of course," said M. Pieyre; "you were relating, my dear friend, that at the signing of the marriage contract of Marois, who has married the daughter of Alexandre Duval, you had forgotten your name."
"Oh yes, true.... Well then, this was it. Everybody signed: then I said to myself, 'Now comes my turn to sign,' and I prepared to do so. I began to think what my name was and—the deuce! I couldn't remember it any longer! I thought I should be obliged to ask my neighbour what I was called, and how humiliating that would be to me. It was on the ground floor, and the door opened out on the garden. I hurried into the garden, striking my forehead and saying to myself, 'You rascal! you rascal! what is your name?' Yes, indeed, if I had but had to remember my name to save myself from being hanged I should have been hanged, right enough. Meanwhile my turn to sign had come, and people were searching for me. Alexandre Duval caught sight of me in the garden. 'Well, this is fine,' he said; 'there is that devil of a Parseval de Grandmaison overcome by a poetic seizure, just when he ought to be signing.... Here! Parseval de Grandmaison!' 'That is it,' I exclaimed, 'that is it: Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison!' and I went up to the table and signed."
"That is just the scene needed in the Distrait," I said, smiling.
"Yes, monsieur, you are quite right, it does need it; and if you wrote poetry I should say to you 'Add it.'"
"But," M. Bichet interpolated, "he does write poetry, that was the very reason why you had him called in."
"Ah, true, true!... Well then, young man, come, recite some of your lines to us."