I got up, too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back: “I think you are a triple idiot.” I then hurried away toward the staircase, and all Duquesnel’s shouting was in vain. I ran down the stairs two at a time.
On arriving under the Odéon Arcade I was stopped by Paul Maurice, who was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly for Victor Hugo to a supper to celebrate the hundredth presentation of “Ruy Blas.”
“I have just come away from your house,” he said. “I have left you a few lines from Victor Hugo.”
“Good, good, that’s all right,” I replied, getting into my carriage. “I shall see you to-morrow, then, my friend.”
“Good heavens, what a hurry you are in!” he said.
“Yes!” I replied; and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my coachman: “Drive to the Comédie Française.”
I looked at Paul Maurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied on the arcade steps.
On arriving at the Comédie I sent my card to Perrin, and five minutes later was ushered in to that icy manikin. There were two very distinct personages in this man. The one was the man he was himself, and the other the one he had created for the requirements of his profession. Perrin himself was gallant, pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the manikin was cold and somewhat given to posing.
I was first received by Perrin, the manikin. He was standing up, his head bent to bow to a woman, his arm outstretched to indicate the hospitable armchair. He waited, with a certain affectation, until I was seated, before sitting down himself. He then picked up a paper knife, in order to have something to do with his hands, and in a rather weak voice, the voice of the manikin, he remarked:
“Have you thought it over, mademoiselle?”