ig as spectacle lenses on his cheeks. He finished his
picture, forwarded it to Carthage, and had half a dozen bottles of
champagne sent up. Three months later he received from Father Cornemuse,
the head of the French Missions in Tunis, a letter informing him that
his painting of the _Death of Saint Louis_, having been submitted to the
Cardinal-Archbishop, had been refused by His Eminence, because of the
unseemly expression on the face of Philippe the Bold who was laughing as
he watched the saintly King, his father, dying on a bed of straw.
Montalent could not make head or tail of it; he was furious, and wanted
to take proceedings against the Cardinal-Archbishop. His painting was
returned to him; he unpacked it, gazed at it in gloomy silence, and
suddenly shouted: 'It's true--Philippe the Bold appears to be splitting
his sides with laughter. What a fool I have been! I gave him the head of
Chevalier, who always seems to be laughing, the brute!'"

"Will you be quiet there!" yelled Pradel.

And the author exclaimed:

"Pradel, my dear boy, just pitch all those people into the street."

Indefatigable, he was arranging the scene:

"A little farther, Trouville, there. Chevalier, you walk up to the
table, you pick up the documents one by one, and you say:
'Senatus-Consultum. Order of the day. Despatches to the departments.
Proclamation,' Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master. 'Senatus-Consultum. Order of the day. Despatches to the
departments. Proclamation.'"

"Now, Marie-Claire, my child, a little more life, confound it! Cross
over! That's it! Very good. Back again! Good! Very good! Buck up! Ah,
the wretched woman! She's spoiling it all!"

He called the stage manager.

"Romilly, give us a little more light, one can't see an inch. Dauville,
my dear friend, what are you doing there in front of the prompter's box!
You seem glued to it! Just get into your head, once for all, that you
are not the statue of General Malet, that you are General Malet in
person, that my play is not a catalogue of wax-work figures, but a
living moving tragedy, one which brings the tears into your eyes, and----"

Words failed him, and he sobbed for a long while into his handkerchief.
Then he roared:

"Holy thunder! Pradel! Romilly! Where is Romilly? Ah, there he is, the
villain! Romilly, I told you to put the stove nearer the dormer-window.
You have not done so. What are you thinking of, my friend?"

The rehearsal was suddenly brought to a stand