"Your companion!" cried the little man, leaping for joy; "can it be that monsieur is an actor, too?"
"Unexcelled in tearful rôles, superb in tragedy, and absolutely natural in comedy," said Dubourg, while Ménard listened with the air of one listening to a language he does not understand. But Floridor did not allow him to remain in that benumbed condition; he threw his arms about Dubourg's neck, he threw his arms about Ménard's neck, and would have done the same by the maid if somebody had not stopped him.
"They are sent by heaven!" he cried, rushing about the room like a madman. "I shall open my theatre! we will play Phèdre, we will make the whole town weep with Le Devin du Village!—Master innkeeper, a bottle of your best wine. I have the honor of inviting to supper the two artists who are travelling incognito."
"What does this mean?" Ménard asked Dubourg, in an undertone.
"It means that we are the two first actors to the King of Poland, that yonder little magpie has already invited us to supper, and that he is going to do a great deal more for us; further, that you must support what I say, and try not to look like an idiot."
"What, monsieur le baron—you and I pass ourselves off as actors?"
"Actors are built like other men, Monsieur Ménard; Roscius was admitted to the presence of Sylla, Garrick is buried beside the kings of England, Molière was an actor, and none the less a great man; and two of the great authors of our own time have acted, and sacrificed none of their merit by so doing."
"But, monsieur le baron, I have never acted."
"Nor have I; but that doesn't alarm me."
"But suppose it should become known, what will people say?"