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“Well, Boissy Minor,” I observed, “I suppose it has occurred to you that your case is calculated to excite wonder in the simple breast of a brutal Englishman.”

He laughed, and I was glad that I had had the courage to reduce him definitely to the rank of Boissy Minor.

“And not only in the breast of an Englishman!” he said. “Mais que veux-tu? One must live.”

“But I should have thought you could have made a comfortable living out of engineering. In England consulting engineers are princes.”

“Oh yes!”

“And engineering might have cured your neurasthenia, if you had taken it in sufficiently large quantities.”

“It would,” he agreed quietly.

“Then why the theatre, seeing that the theatre doesn’t interest you?”

“In order to live,” he replied. “And when I say ‘live,’ I mean live. It is not a question of money, it is a question of living.”

“But as you never go near the theatre–“

“I write solely for Blanche Lemonnier,” he said. I was at a loss. Perceiving this, he continued intimately: “Surely you know of my admiration for Blanche Lemonnier?”

I shook my head.

“I have never even heard of Blanche Lemonnier, save in connection with your plays,” I said.

“She is only known in connection with my plays,” he answered. “When I met her, a dozen years ago, she was touring the provinces, playing small parts in third-rate companies. I asked her what was her greatest ambition, and she said that it was to be applauded as a star on the Paris stage. I told her that I would satisfy her ambition, and that when I had done so I hoped she would satisfy mine. That was how I began to write plays. That was my sole reason. It is the sole reason why I keep on writing them. If she had desired to be a figure in Society I should have gone into politics.”

“I am getting very anxious to see this lady,” I said. “I feel as if I can scarcely wait till to-night.”

“She will probably be here in a few minutes,” said he.

“But how did you do it?” I asked. “What was your plan of campaign?”

“After the success of my first play I wrote the second specially for her, and I imposed her on the management. I made her a condition. The management kicked, but I was in a position to insist. I insisted.”

“It sounds simple.” I laughed uneasily.

“If you are a dramatic critic,” he said, “you will guess that it was not at first quite so simple as it sounds. Of course it is simple enough now. Blanche Lemonnier is now completely identified with my plays. She is as well known as nearly any actress in Paris. She has the glory she desired.” He smiled curiously. “Her ambition is satisfied–so is mine.” He stopped.

“Well,” I said, “I’ve never been so interested in any play before. And I shall expect Mademoiselle Lemonnier to be magnificent.”

“Don’t expect too much,” he returned calmly. “Blanche’s acting is not admired by everybody. And I cannot answer for her powers, as I’ve never seen her at work.”

“It’s that that’s so extraordinary!”

“Not a bit! I could not bear to see her on the stage. I hate the idea of her acting in public. But it is her wish. And after all, it is not the actress that concerns me. It is the woman. It is the woman alone who makes my life worth living. So long as she exists and is kind to me my neurasthenia is a matter of indifference, and I do not even trouble about engineering.”

He tried to laugh away the seriousness of his tone, but he did not quite succeed. Hitherto I had been amused at his singular plight and his fatalistic acceptance of it. But now I was touched.

“I’m talking very freely to you,” he said.

“My dear fellow,” I burst out, “do let me see her portrait.”

He shook his head.

“Unfortunately her portrait is all over Paris. She likes it so. But I prefer to have no portrait myself. My feeling is–“

At that moment the valet opened the door and we heard vivacious voices in the corridor.

“She is here,” said Octave Boissy, in a whisper suddenly dramatic. He stood up; I also. His expression had profoundly changed. He controlled his gestures and his attitude, but he could not control his eye. And when I saw that glance I understood what he meant by “living.” I understood that, for him, neither fame nor artistic achievement nor wealth had any value in his life. His life consisted in one thing only.

“Eh bien, Blanche!” he murmured amorously.

Blanche Lemonnier invaded the room with arrogance. She was the odious creature whose departure in her automobile had so upset my arrival.