On arriving under the Odéon arcade I was stopped by Paul Meurice, who was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly, on behalf of Victor Hugo, to a supper to celebrate the one hundredth performance of Ruy Blas.
“I have just come 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 Meurice 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 mannikin. 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 mannikin was cold, and somewhat given to posing.
I was first received by Perrin the mannikin. He was standing up, his head bent, bowing to a woman, his arm outstretched to indicate the hospitable arm-chair. 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 mannikin, he remarked:
“Have you thought it over, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, Monsieur, and here I am to give my signature.”