I was called on to the stage just at this moment, and on returning a few minutes later I found the young poet talking in a low voice to the beautiful tragedian. I coughed, and Agar, who had taken my armchair, wanted to give it back. On my refusing it she pulled me down on her lap. The young man drew up his chair and we chatted away together, our three heads almost touching. It was decided that after reading the piece I should show it to Duquesnel, who alone was capable of judging poetry, and that we should then get permission from both managers to play it for the benefit of M. X—— after the first performance. The young man was delighted, and his pale face lighted up with a grateful smile as he shook hands excitedly. Agar walked away with him as far as the little landing which projected over the stage. I watched them as they went, the magnificent, statuelike woman and the slender outline of the young writer. Agar was perhaps thirty-five at that time. She was certainly very beautiful, but to me there was no charm about her, and I could not understand why this poetical Bonaparte was in love with this matronly woman. It was as clear as daylight that he was, and she, too, appeared to be, in love. This interested me infinitely. I watched them clasp each other’s hands, and then, with an abrupt and almost awkward movement, the young poet bent over the beautiful hand he was holding and kissed it fervently. Agar came back to me with a faint color in her cheeks. This was rare with her, for she had a marblelike complexion. “Here is the manuscript,” she said, giving me a little roll of paper.
The rehearsal was over and I wished Agar good-by; and, on my way home, read the piece while driving. I was so delighted with it that I drove straight back to the theater to give it to Duquesnel at once. I met him coming downstairs.
“Do come back again, please,” I exclaimed.
“Good heavens, my dear girl, what is the matter?” he asked. “You look as though you have won a big lottery prize!”
“Well, it is something like that,” I said, and entering his office I produced the manuscript.
“Read this, please,” I continued.
“I’ll take it with me,” he said.
“Oh, no, read it here at once!” I insisted. “Shall I read it to you?”
“No, no,” he replied, “your voice is treacherous. It makes charming poetry of the worst lines possible. Well, let me have it,” he continued, sitting down in his armchair. He began to read, while I looked at the newspapers.
“It’s delicious,” he soon exclaimed. “It’s a perfect masterpiece!”