admirable tales—Ah-h, my old one, not for the world would I disturb the flow of your so admirable genius. Parbleu! Do I wish my wretched name to become infamous to all posterity, to be heard with execration—ah, the devil! Non! The black forgetfulness of the grave is better! Eh, well, then, old comrade, till tomorrow—Then I hope—”
“Ah, but no, but no, but no, but no, but no! My dear Octave, you shall remain! These pages here!—Pouf! it is nothing! I am already done—Attend!” Swiftly he scrawls a line or two, and then triumphantly: “Voilà! C’est fini, old cock! A trifle I was finishing for my scoundrel of a publisher, who demands it for tomorrow.—But, tell me, my dear boy—what the devil kept you in the provinces for so long a time—so long away from this dear Pa-ree? Ah, how we have missed you: my dear fellow; Paris really never is the same unless you are here to give it grace! Tiens! Tiens! Poor Courteline has been quite inconsolable! Capus has sworn daily he would go and fetch you back! Tinayre is grouchy as a bear! My dear fellow, we have all lamented you! De Régnier was certain you had got another mistress! Boylesve insisted that she was at least a duchess—Bazin, a milkmaid—”
“And you, my old one?”
“I? My dear fellow—I knew it must be chicken-pox or measles: I was certain you would not have to stir a foot out of Pa-ree to find a wench.”
“But tell me, Octave, how are all our friends? I am starved for news, I have read nothing. First of all—René—?”
“Has published another admirable work—an excellent study of life in the provinces.”
“Ah, good. And Duvernois?”
“His latest comedy has been produced and is un succès fou—a charming thing—witty, naughty, quiet in his best vein, my dear boy.”
“Renard?”
“A comedy, a book of stories, a romance—all excellent, all doing well.”
“And Courteline?”
“Une chose incomparable, my boy: a book of dialogues in his drollest vein—the public is convulsed: the police are in a towering rage about Le Gendarme est sans Pitié—”
“And Abel?”
“A formidable book, my lad—just what you would expect, a powerful tragedy, exact psychology, brilliant—but here he comes, all smiles—ah-h! I thought so! He sees you—My dear Abel, welcome: behold, our prodigal has come home again—”
