"Manon!" I cried, pointing to one of Meilhac's books.
"Manon Lescaut, do you mean Manon Lescaut?"
"No, Manon, Manon short, Manon, it is Manon!"
Meilhac had separated from Dudovic Halévy a little while before and had associated himself with Philippe Gille, that fine, delightful mind, a tender-hearted and charming man.
"Come to lunch with me to-morrow at Vachette's," said Meilhac, "and I will tell you what I have done...."
It is easy to imagine whether in keeping this engagement I had more curiosity in my heart or appetite in my stomach. I went to Vachette's and there to my inexpressible and delightful surprise I found beneath my napkin—the first two acts of Manon. The other three acts followed within a few days.
The idea of writing this work had haunted me for a long time. Now the dream was realized.
Although I was much excited by the rehearsals of Hérodiade and greatly upset by my frequent trips to Brussels, I was already at work on Manon in the summer of 1881.
Meilhac went to live that summer in the Pavillion Henri IV at Saint-Germain. I used to surprise him there about five o'clock in the afternoon, when I knew the day's work would be done. Then, as we walked, we worked out new arrangements in the words of the opera. Here we decided on the Seminaire act, and, to bring off a greater contrast at the end of it, I demanded the act of Transylvania.
How pleased I was in this collaboration, in that work in which we exchanged ideas with never a clash, in the mutual desire of reaching perfection if possible.