known pieces, and sang songs from operas long since fallen into disuse even on street organs.  This public saw the same comedians march out; the most famous are the most monotonous; the comical ones abused their privileges; the lover spoke distractedly through his nose; the great coquette—­the actress par excellence, the last of the Celimenes —­discharged her part in such a sluggish way that when she began an adverb ending in “ment,” one would have almost had time to go out and smoke a cigarette or drink a glass of beer before she reached the end of the said adverb.

But at the most lethargic moment of this drowsy soirees, after the comedians from the Francais had played in a stately manner one act from a tragedy, Jocquelet appeared.  Jocquelet, still a pupil at the Conservatoire, showed himself to the public for the first time and by an exceptional grace—­Jocquelet, absolutely unknown, too short in his evening clothes, in spite of the two packs of cards that he had put in his boots.  He appeared, full of audacity, riding his high horse, raising his flat-nosed, bull-dog face toward the “gallery gods,” and, in his voice capable of making Jericho’s wall fall or raising Jehoshaphat’s dead, he dashed off in one effort, but with intelligence and heroic feeling, his comrade’s poem.

The effect was prodigious.  This bold, common, but powerful actor, and these picturesque and modern verses were something entirely new to this public satiated with old trash.  What a happy surprise!  Two novelties at once!  To think of discovering an unheard-of poet and an unknown comedian!  To nibble at these two green fruits!  Everybody shook off his torpor; the anaesthetized journalists aroused themselves; the colorless and sleepy ladies plucked up a little animation; and when Jocquelet had made the last rhyme resound like a grand flourish of trumpets, all applauded enough to split their gloves.

In one of the theatre lobbies, behind a bill-board pasted over with old placards, Amedee Violette heard with delight the sound of the applause which seemed like a shower of hailstones.  He dared not think of it!  Was it really his poem that produced so much excitement, which had thawed this cold public?  Soon he did not doubt it, for Jocquelet, who had just been recalled three times, threw himself into the poet’s arms and glued his perspiring, painted face to his.

“Well, my little one, I have done it!” he exclaimed, bursting with gratification and vanity.  “You heard how I caught them!”

Immediately twenty, thirty, a hundred spectators appeared, most of them very correct in white cravats, but all eager and with beaming countenances, asking to see the author and the interpreter, and to be presented to them, that they might congratulate them with an enthusiastic word and a shake of the hand.  Yes! it was a success, an instantaneous one.  It was certainly that rare tropical flower of the Parisian greenhouse which blossoms out so seldom, but so magnificently.