"All right," I said, "there is nothing to change in the programme; I will read it the day after to-morrow. Only, tell Lockroy to be at the reading."
"Well, what about the remaining four thousand francs?"
"They do not belong to me, my dear fellow; therefore you must take them back."
Harel scratched his ear and looked at me sideways. It was evident he did not understand.
Poor Harel! how sharp he was!
Two days later, before Harel, Georges, Janin and Lockroy I read the play with immense success. It was at once put in rehearsal and was to appear soon after a drama of Mirabeau, which was being studied. I would fain say what the drama of Mirabeau was like, but I cannot now remember. All I know is that the principal part was for Frédérick, and that they thought a great deal of the work.
Charles VII. was distributed as follows:—Savoisy, Ligier; Bérengère, Georges; Yaqoub, Lockroy; Charles VII., Delafosse: Agnes Sorel, Noblet. This business of the distribution done, I immediately turned to Richard; its wholly modern colouring, political theme, vivid and rather coarse treatment was more in accord with my own age and special tastes than studies of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Let me hasten to say that I was then not anything like as familiar with those periods as I am now.
I wrote to Goubaux that I was at his disposition if it pleased him to come, either next day to breakfast at my house, or at his own if he preferred. We had become neighbours; I had left my lodgings in the rue de l'Université and had taken a third floor in the square d'Orléans, a very fine house just built in the rue Saint-Lazare, 42, where several of my friends already lived, Zimmermann, Étienne Arago, Robert Fleury and Gué. I believe Zimmermann and Robert Fleury still live there: Gué is dead and Étienne Arago is in exile. Goubaux, who lived at No. 19 rue Blanche, fixed a rendez-vous there for six in the evening. We were to dine first and talk of Richard Darlington afterwards. I say talk, because, at the time of reading, it was found that hardly anything had been written. However, Goubaux had found several guide-posts to serve as beacons for our three acts. There were, pre-eminently, traits of character to suit ambitious actors. One of the principal was where Dr. Grey recalls to Richard and Mawbray, when Richard is about to marry Jenny, the circumstances of the famous night which formed the subject of the prologue, relating how a carriage stopped at the door. "Had that carriage a coat of arms?" asked Richard. Another item, still more remarkable, was given me to make what I liked of it: the daughter of Da Sylva, Caroline, Richard's mother, has married a Lord Wilmor; it is his daughter who is to marry Richard, led away by the king determined to divorce Jenny. Only, Caroline, who sees no more in Richard than an influential Member of Parliament, one day destined to become a minister, demands an interview with Richard to reveal a great secret to him; the secret is the existence of a boy who was lost in the little village of Darlington, and who, being her son, has the right to her fortune. Richard listens with growing attention; then, at one particular passage, Wilmor's recital coincides so remarkably with that of Mawbray as to leave no room for doubt in his mind; but, instead of revealing himself, instead of flinging himself into the arms of the woman who confesses her shame and weeps, asking for her child back again, he gently disengages himself from her in order to say to himself in a whisper, "She is my mother!" and to ask himself, still in a whisper, "Who can my father be?" Finally, Richard accepts the king's proposals; he must get rid of his wife, no matter at what price, even were it that of a crime. This is about as far as the work had progressed at our first talk with Goubaux. I kept my word and brought the prologue entirely finished. I had done it exactly as Goubaux had imagined it should be written; I had, therefore, but to take courage and to continue. While Goubaux talked, my mind was gathering up all the threads he held, and, like an active weaver, in less than an hour, I had almost entirely sketched out the plan on my canvas. I shared my mental travail with him, all unformed as it was. The divorce scene between Richard and his wife, in especial, delighted me immensely. A scene of Schiller had returned to my memory, a scene of marvellous beauty and vigour. I saw how I could apply the scene between Philip II. and Elizabeth, to Richard and Jenny. I will give the two scenes in due course. All this preparatory work was settled between us;—in addition to this, it was decided that Goubaux and Beudin should write the election scene together, for which I had not the necessary data, while Beudin had been present at scenes of this nature in London. Then Goubaux looked at me.
"Only one thing troubles me now," he said.
"Only one?"