"They were already sufficiently troubled by the fact that his Seconde Botanique had been played! That youthful indiscretion delayed his entry for ten years ... But ten years are not fifty."
So M. Fulchiron began to be impatient, as impatient, that is, as he can be. From time to time he appears at the Théâtre-Français, and, with that smile which, it seems to me, should prevent anyone from refusing him anything, he says—
"About my Pizarre, it must be high time they were putting it in hand!"
"Monsieur," says Verteuil to him—the secretary of the Comédie-Française, a clever fellow, whom we have already had occasion to mention, through whose hands many plays pass, but who does not compose any himself—"Monsieur, they are even now busy with it."
"Ah! very good!"
And M. Fulchiron's smile becomes still more winning.—
"Yes, and as soon as M. Viennet's Achille, now under rehearsal, has been played, Pizarre will occupy the stage."
"But, if I remember rightly, M. Viennet's Achille was only accepted in 1809, and, consequently, I have the priority."
"Doubtless; but M. Viennet had two tours de faveur and you only one."
"Then I was wrong to complain."