"Of course I shall be at my desk, and if you want me...."
I resumed my seat with delight. Except for losing Lassagne and Ernest, my disgrace resolved itself into a privilege. The office-boy warned me that if I arrived before eleven o'clock, I should not find him there, and if I stayed past four he would lock me in when he went. So, no more portfolios to make up, all my evenings to myself, and a chief who did not prevent me from writing tragedies! And, forthwith, I set to work on _Christine._ I cannot say how long I had been working when the office-boy came to tell me that M. Bichet wanted me in his office. I went in at once. M. Bichet was not alone this time; on his right stood a short old man, and on his left a tall old man. As they stood there, the three judges, before whom I seemed about to be arraigned, looked not unlike Minis, Æacus and Rhadamanthus. I bowed, feeling considerably surprised.
"See, there he is," said M. Bichet. "Upon my word, his handwriting is beautiful, it is exactly like Piron's, and he has done fifteen days' work in three."
"What did you tell me monsieur did besides?" asked the tall old man.
"Have I the honour of addressing M. Parseval de Grandmaison?" I asked.
Then, turning to the other old gentleman, he said--
"Only think, my dear Pieyre, I am so absent-minded, that the most extraordinary thing happened to me the other day."
"Your own name? Not your own name?" queried M. Pieyre.
"Yes, my name, my very own name! It was at the marriage contract of ... what's his name ... you know, who married the daughter of so and so ...?"
"How can I assist you on such slight information as that?"
"Oh! dear, dear! the daughter of so and so ... who is my colleague at the Academy?... who writes comedies ... who wrote ... I cannot remember what it was.... A play that Mercier had already done; you know well enough?"
"Yes, yes; it was at the signing of the contract of what's his name ... who married his daughter ... an architect ... who wrote a work on something ... that was burned ... in the eruption of Vesuvius, where somebody or other died...."
"Oh, yes! Marois, who wrote a work on _Pompeii_, where Pliny died?" I hazarded timidly.
"That is exactly it!... Thanks, monsieur."
