"Very well; I will keep it ready for you."
"Ah! one more favour."
"Which is?"
"Do not let us speak of Richard Darlington again; I shall think of it quite enough, you need not fear, without talking about it."
"We will not mention it again."
And, as a matter of fact, from that moment, there was no reference made between us to Richard Darlington—I will not say as though it had never existed, but as though it never were to exist. On the other hand, Charles VII. went on its way. On 10 August I wrote the four last lines.
"Vous qui, nés sur la terre,
Portez comme des chiens, la chaîne héréditaire,
Demeurez en hurlant près du sépulcre ou vert ...
Pour Yakoub, il est libre, et retourne au désert!"
When the work was finished, I read it over. It was, as I have said, more in the nature of a pastiche than a true drama; but there was an immense advance in style between Christine and Charles VII. True, Christine is far superior to Charles VII. in imagination and in dramatic feeling.
Nothing further kept me at Trouville. Beudin had preceded me to Paris several days before. We took leave of M. and Madame de la Garenne; we settled our accounts with Madame Oseraie and we started for Paris. Bonnechose accompanied us as far as Honfleur. He did not know how to part with us, poor fellow! He might have guessed that we were never to see each other again. The same night we took diligence from Rouen. Next day, at dawn, the travellers got down to climb a hillside; I thought I recognised, among our fellow-passengers, one of the editors of the Journal des Débats. I went up to him as he was coming towards me, and we got into conversation.
"Well!" he said, "you have heard?"