He replied, after the manner of Madame Méchin, when she did not incline to promote any particular end--
"I will never lend my _influence_ in that direction."
I had several times noticed a man with thick eyebrows and a long nose, in the Secretarial Department, who took his tobacco Swiss-fashion. This man periodically brought the ninety theatre tickets to all parts of the house that M. Oudard had the prerogative of giving away every month, at the rate of three per day. I did not know who this man was, but I asked. I was told that he was the prompter.
I lay in wait for this prompter, took him by surprise in the corridor and begged him to tell me what steps were necessary to obtain the honour of a reading before the Committee of the Théâtre-Français. He told me I must first deposit my play with the Examiner; but he warned me that so many other works were already deposited there that I must expect to wait at least a year. As though it were possible for me to wait a year!
"But," I asked, "is there no short cut through all these formalities?"
"Oh dear me, yes!" he replied, "if you know Baron Taylor."
"There is nothing to thank me for," he said.
And he was right; there wasn't anything to thank him for, for I did not know Baron Taylor in the slightest.
"Do you know Baron Taylor?" I asked Lassagne.
"No," he answered; "but Charles Nodier is his intimate friend."
"Well, did you not tell me that you once talked with Charles Nodier a whole evening at a representation of the _Vampire?_"
"Bah! he will have forgotten all about me."
"He never forgets anything; write to him."
I wrote to Charles Nodier, recalling to his memory the Elzevirs, the rotifer, the vampires, and in the name of his well-known kindliness towards young people I entreated him to introduce me to Baron Taylor. It can be imagined with what impatience I awaited the reply. Baron Taylor himself replied, granting my request and fixing an appointment with me five or six days later. He apologised at the same time for the hour he had fixed; but his numerous engagements left him so little time that seven o'clock in the morning was the only hour at which he could see me. Although I am probably the latest riser in Paris, I was ready at the appointed hour. True, I had kept awake all the night. Taylor then lived at No. 42 rue de Bondy, fourth floor. His suite of rooms consisted of an anteroom filled with books and busts; a dining-room full of pictures and books; a drawing-room full of weapons and books; and a bedroom full of manuscripts and books. I rang at the door of the antechamber, my heart beating at a terrible rate. The good or ill natured mood of a man who knew nothing about me, who had no inducement to be kindly disposed towards me, who had received me out of pure good-nature, was to decide my future life. If my play displeased him, it would stand in the way of anything I could bring him later, and I was very nearly at the end of my courage and strength. I had rung the bell, gently enough, I admit, and no one had answered it; I rang a second time, as gently as at first; again no one took any notice of me. And yet, putting my ear close, I seemed to hear a noise indicative of something unusual taking place inside: confused sounds and snarls which now sounded like bursts of anger, and now, decreasing in pitch, seemed like a continuous monotonous bass accompaniment. I could not imagine what it could be; I was afraid to disturb Taylor at such a moment and yet it was the very hour he had himself fixed for my coming. I rang louder. I heard a door open, and simultaneously the mysterious noise from inside that had greatly roused my curiosity for the last ten minutes sounded louder than ever. At last the door was opened by an old serving-woman.