these long conversations, which lasted several years. | tured way he sometimes has, "I take notes of everything. Do not be afraid of forgetting aught; I am the cashier of our firm." I hope M. Sardou will discover no bitterness in this reminiscence. I have never met anything in his works which can be called a larceny to my prejudice. We journeyed together through Edgar Poe's Mathematics long before M. Sardou wrote Les Pattes de Mouche; we dissected American eccentricities some time anterior to his play, Les Femmes Fortes; but none of these things were my own property. He was a faithful cashier; besides, perhaps our strong-box did not contain a great deal of good money. physiognomy. But I search in vain. I can no longer find in my breast the passion which may excuse the vigor of some marks. M. Sardou will pardon me for having thrown on He brought me a second and then a third drama. paper the impressions he made on me in our meetI do not believe he has written any more dramas. ing, without attempting to write an elaborate study. I have recognized in some of his numberless success- I might have made these impressions piquant, by ful pieces several ideas which were familiar to me; touching private matters. To tell the truth, it does I have not exposed those. Despairing of seeing happen these private matters reveal a singular charhim bring me a drama which could be played, I re-acter, and chisel deeply the profile of a very marked lated to him The Duke's Motto, which I then had in my mind. I was delighted with it. We worked on it for years, and we never wrote anything together but The Duke's Motto. I cannot say what there was at one time or another in this Duke's Motto. It was a world in itself. The manager of the Porte St. Martin Theatre refused it. I do not know whether he was right. M. Sardou, it is true, had not then all the talents he has now, but even then he possessed a great many. However, this poor drama, by dint of being written and rewritten, had fallen into a state of decrepitude. It quaked from top to bottom when I attempted to write it in the shape of a novel for Le Siècle. I had the greatest possible difficulty in recovering the freshness of my original idea. After the novel was published, M. Sardou and I began to turn it into a play at the request of the manager of the Gaieté. In the mean time M. Sardou had fought and won his first battles. When M. Sardou "begged my permission to abandon me," our drama was completed, at least thus far: M. Sardou had sketched the plot of his part; mine was written out. I admit my part was worthless. This drama has never been played. If I remember rightly, it was much bolder and much more curious than the piece written by M. Anicet Bourgeois and myself, and which was played at the Porte St. Martin Theatre. M. Anicet Bourgeois has no need of my praises. He did not see the first plot of the piece. His plot was perhaps better adapted than M. Sardou's and mine to command success on the Boulevard Theatres, at all events it was very successful. For some time I thought I observed with a hostile eye the brilliant path M. Sardou struck out for himself in life. I soon discovered I was mistaken. I observed his progress, that was all, and the attention I gave him was not exempt from tenderness. One always loves the talents one saw bud and bloom. In my opinion, M. Sardou is a man of great talents, but he has no dash, no enthusiasm, no cordiality, no youth. He is wonderfully adroit in his selections, bold with calculation, skilful in feigning vehemence, and he attains warmth by prodigies of cerebral gymnastics. The hares of his stews are not always killed by him, that is certain, but he does cook them deliciously, and if among the hares he slips in the arch knave!-a slice or two of Tom-Cat, - the eaters clamor for more of the same sort, for 'tis served up with most exquisite spicing. As he takes his muscade wherever he finds it, he spares no expense. He has whole soup-pots full of scraps, to which he gives a definitive form by dint of mind, algebra, and sick-headaches. If he wrings his withers, it is never in vain. His animated brilliancy is rarely natural, but he has animated brilliancy, or something as much like it as two drops of water are like each other. And, after all, what do I care about the way in which the whites of eggs are whipped, provided the foam be made. It is true enough he has neither the dramatic breadth of Emile Augier, nor the terrible science of Alex. Dumas, Jr., nor the admirable naturalness of Theodore Barrière; but his successes make as much noise as theirs, and his failures are rarer than theirs. To tell the truth, he has never made a failure since his first attempt, whose wounds I was so fortunate as to soothe. I do not repeat this as a reproach to M. Sardou, but to give me some merit in posterity's eyes. I said just now, in speaking of M. Sardou, The Duke's Motto was the only play we wrote in copartnership; but I said in another paragraph, "I have recognized in some of his numberless successful pieces several ideas which were familiar to me." The reason of this is, that, in writing The Duke's Motto, we turned over mountains of ideas. It is I believe him henceforward safe from all shipimpossible to write a piece like The Duke's Motto, wreck. Let the dramatic ocean be ever so tempestfor four or five years, without going to the right,|uous and deep, he can never again founder, because to the left, forward, back, - everywhere. On our way we talked of writing two or three dozen plays, among which I must mention one built on the astonishing digressions and ramblings of our joint labor. M. Sardou is my benefactor for this idea. I made use of this fancy in writing two chapters of Les Habits Noirs, which I composed while laughing heartily. M. Šardou said to me, in the charming good-na he sails surrounded with corks, india-rubber, and bladders. If the bladder breaks, the corks float, and the machine continues above water. I have seen Muscade has two meanings here, which must be our excuse for translating it by circumlocution: it means both nutmeg and the object juggled by sleight of hand from one place to another. It will be observed M. Feval uses Molière's phrase, with a change which denies the possession of property to M. Sardou, who has only a mountebank's muscade. this happen many a time, for I scarcely ever fail to go and applaud my ex-friend whenever he brings out a new piece. I have seen something else, too, something which is really curious: whenever he does well, as he does very often, the public are not always satisfied; but, good gracious! when he does badly, there is the deuse to pay! Each of the little springes he sets catches the audience by the neck. There is no mortal man who has so heroically divined his "everybody." NO. 9999. "You are going to Toulon !" exclaimed my neighbor, the avocat, with some surprise. "I am going there, because I cannot help passing it, unless I take steamer from Genoa to Marseilles; which would not be the way to see much of the country." "You will perhaps, then, pay a visit to the Bagne, the only one now existing in France?" "I shall try; although it must be a painful sight. But I find no phase of humanity uninteresting." "I will give you a letter to a forçat (convict) there." "A letter to a galley-slave?" 66 attitude and behavior, coinciding with the general belief of his innocence and pity for his consequently cruel position, gained him universal sympathy. Instead of harsh words, or worse, a collection of money was made on the spot, to procure him comforts during his journey to the place of punishment." "But what was the cause of this discrepancy between the popular feeling and the jury's verdict?" Well; the case is difficult as well as curious, and still remains in some measure mysterious. You are aware of the innumerable and bitter disputes occasioned in France by the minute division of property. For a square foot of ground, for half a tree, for a crumbling mud wall, for a creaking bit of furniture, sometimes even for a few pots and pans, or halfworn clothes, families will fall into variance. This was another instance of quarrel caused by a trumpery inheritance unfairly appropriated. Alexandre Fourrier and his elder brother, Pierre François, each believed that the other had got more than his share, and consequently indulged in very unbrotherly expressions of feeling. François was even heard to use words threatening his brother's life. Mind what you are about,' he said. 'Je te tue; I'll kill you.' "That was very bad." "Yes, and no. Hard words break no bones. "Yes. He is a person in whom I take great interest. It may be as well not to give you any writ-Hot-tempered people, under provocation, often say ten communication to the man himself, as it would put you to the trouble of getting it read and passed by the prison authorities, and others perhaps, previous to presentation; but I will put you in the way of getting at him, and speaking to him. You shall be introduced to one of his patrons, an adjoint of the mayor." more than they have the slightest intention of meaning. Listen to the compliments often interchanged between husband and wife amongst our lower classes, and then see how they make it up afterwards. Parents, even with you, sometimes tell their children they will break their necks; and yet they do not break them the more for that. I hold that François's je te tue' was not a bit more serious in its real purport." Capital! With that backing the one I shall "It would, nevertheless, have an ugly look when give you, you will be able to perform an act of char-proved in evidence." ity. It will be a good deed on your part. Only put yourself in his place "Much obliged." "But I am already promised an introduction to the Préfet Maritime." 66 "And think how gratified you would feel at receiving a friendly visit from without." 66 Is he one of your clients, this worthy forçat ? One of the innocents whom your potent eloquence has failed to whitewash?" "No. I did not defend him, although the prisoner was well defended." "And the resulting verdict?" "Guilty, with extenuating circumstances. sentence, Hard labor for life." 66 True; and could François have foreseen the consequences, he would have curbed his temper and held his tongue. Had he really intended to commit the murder, he would have refrained from announcing that intention." "At least, it was a great imprudence." "Doubtless, as was proved by the event. The other fearing, or pretending to fear, that his life was in danger, procured a pistol, which he constantly carried, loaded, in his pocket. One evening he was found lying in a field, close to a half-open gate, The bleeding to death from a wound in the hip. The pistol in his pocket was discharged. Carried into the house, the only articulate and intelligible words which he uttered before expiring were Cochon de frère!'-Pig of a brother!' Those words were the cause of François's condemnation." "In the first place, it is doubtful to me whether a crime was committed; secondly, if a crime there was, I believe the prisoner innocent of it. There might have been a crime; but he was not the guilty party. The imputed offence was fratricide." "He has, therefore, at least escaped the guillotine." | "And well they might be." "They might merely be the delirious expression of his habitual train of thought. There were marks of footprints brought as evidence against François. His counsel insisted that the shoes in question should be tried on the father, who refused. They were tried on by force, and found to fit him perfectly. After François's condemnation there came out very grave charges against the father, a man of fierce passions and moody temper. The whole family were thrown into prison,-father, mother, sisters, and all. I hold that, for his mother's sake, François had said nothing against his father. I believe him to have been a martyr, sacrificing himself and letting matters take their course on her account. The father hung himself in prison." Saturday "Very strange that, if he had done no wrong." "The family were immediately set at liberty. The father's suicide was construed into a confession of guilt. From that moment everybody believed in the innocence of the convicted prisoner. It is certain that, if the suicide had preceded instead of following the condemnation, it would have been productive of the same benefit to the convict as it was to the rest of the family. But it happened too late. Judgment had been pronounced, and could not be reversed. He was first sent to Brest, where he figured under the singular No. of 333,550. He is now, as I have told you, at Toulon. By great exertions his sentence has been remitted from hard labor for life to a limited period, -an immense alleviation. But he has still four years to remain in confinement. We are trying further to diminish that. As to the labor, he has been relieved of it by being classed with the incurables.' See him at Toulon. Your visit may possibly do good." 66 | - would not even go through a vineyard without somebody to bear witness that they refrained from gathering the grapes. The préfet complimented them in a handsome speech, praising them highly, and holding out hopes of mitigation of their sentences." "Good! I am glad of that," I said. And then the thought occurred that poor Fourrier could be none the better for the circumstance. The favor intended by making him "incurable" would, at the same time, cut him off from all opportunity of proving his desire to be useful to society. It would be a too glaring inconsistency to allow a prisoner, privileged with indulgences on the ground of bodily infirmity, to go and merit further advantages by performing the terrible duty of interring corpses infected with cholera. I That walking over Mont Cenis and along the Italian coast has somewhat shabbified my travelling attire. I had not bargained no tourist does-for Before starting, Fourrier's mother and sister, ap- dust, drenching rain, and scorching sunshine. I had prised of my intention, came to meet me at the avo- had, however, a taste of each. At Toulon, with the cat's house. The first, a hale, apple-cheeked old letters I have to deliver and receive, there is no woman, could hardly speak for emotion; but, with- choice but to go to the best, that is, the most expenout asking leave, kissed me affectionately, as if I sive, hotel. And, while performing the part of rollwere her child himself. The sister, a tidy, middle-ing-stone, I have gathered no moss by the way as aged, hard-working woman, burst into tears as soon yet. My cash-bag is growing beautifully less. as she entered the room, seized my hand, and stam- know no banker in Toulon, and no banker knows mered out as well as she could, “ You will try and me; and I have to get back again as well as I had see my brother, then?" to get here. A new suit of clothes, therefore, is out "Yes; I will endeavor to speak to him." of the question. I shall do very well as I am. My "O, then, give him this from me," again squeez-hat, too, is quite passable, only the edge of the top ing my hand. "Tell him to try and live for four of the chimney-pot shows a slight wound on its epiyears longer. Tell him that we only live in the dermis. Nobody in the streets will see it; if they do, hope of seeing him back again." no matter. While making a call, I can hold it in A flight by rail to the foot of Mont Cenis; a such a way as to hide the blemish. Fresh gloves and tramp on foot over Mont Cenis; another railway my Sunday shoes will make a perfectly presentable flight from Susa to Turin and Genoa; a scrimble-morning costume. Bien ganté et bien chaussé, on scramble along the Corniche from Genoa to Nice, va partout. Any evening invitation must perforce sometimes on foot, sometimes on wheels, with the be declined. blue Mediterranean on the left, and olive-clad mountains to the right, all the way along; and again by rail from Nice to Toulon, the whole of this distance had to be traversed and, to confess the truth, enjoyed; but they are foreign to my present narrative, except as taking me to Toulon. Often, however, my enjoyment was dashed with the recollection of the task that lay before me. Often, without even shutting my eyes, I could see the mother's attitude of helpless grief, and the careworn face of the more impulsive sister. Often I wished I had had nothing to do with the business. What a fool I, a foreigner, had been to undertake to confront official formalities and impediments, sure to be tiresome, perhaps unpleasant. At the fourth station from Toulon, reckoning eastward, a village, Solliès-Pont, is pointed out, severely ravaged by cholera, brought, my informant assures me, by that river,—that quick-running stream of water there. "Surely not," I observed in surprise. "The stream would rather tend to keep disease away. The stream, no doubt, was running and the cholera raging at the same place and the same time; but one was hardly the cause of the other." "O yes it was; else it would n't have been so bad. The living were insufficient to bury the dead. They were obliged to get volunteer forçats from the Bagne to come and dig the graves and put the corpses in. They behaved very well indeed, those forçats did. Not a bit afraid. And they touched nothing,—did not take the value of a pin, Toulon is generally a busy place, full of all sorts of strangers, illustrious and otherwise. I am put into a first-floor front of the hotel, a chamber for generals and plenipotentiaries. The master, just returned from the country (the son came in next day, and the wife, I think the day after), hands me a letter with a very official-looking outside aspect. It raises me in his opinion. I open it. It encloses another addressed to the Contre-Amiral, then acting Préfet Maritime. I am in for it now. With this, and the one I have in my pocket, there is no decent loophole for retreat. "At what o'clock is the table d'hôte dinner?" "At six, monsieur." At six I enter the dining-room. Nobody. En- "And the people who dine at it?" 66 "Give me some dinner, then. what you have readiest at hand." Serve, at once, As soon as he is gone a passing traveller inquires in an undertone for news of "the malady." Nobody mentions cholera to ears polite. I could give no news. He tied his comforter round his neck, buttoned his paletot, and went to take the next train. Next morning to business in right good earnest, but with a lingering wish to avoid the great people, if possible. Doing antechamber, running the gantlet, and forcing one's way through porters, sentinels, gendarmes, door-openers, clerks, and the various safeguards with which authority is obliged to fence itself in, is distasteful to many besides myself. The feeling will be understood, and needs no explanation. I will first deliver my letter addressed to M. Margollé, an adjoint to the mayor, to be opened, in his absence, by his brother-in-law, M. Zurcher, both men of letters, who write excellent books in collaboration. I find the house with difficulty. My driver does not seem to know the town, and this is outside it. Is he one of the strangers arrived to replace the runaway population? M. Margollé is absent, M. Zurcher not. A tall, handsome man, but evidently suffering from illness, receives me with kind and charming courtesy. He knows Fourrier and his story well, and has been instrumental in procuring the partial remission of his sentence. He himself has been tormented lately with neuralgic pains, but is better to-day. He will take me to the admiral and accompany me to the Bagne, calling for me at the hotel at two in the afternoon. Charming! Capital! It rolls on castors. The thing is done. The influential and well-known Frenchman taking the Englishman under his wing, the latter will have only to walk over the course and fulfil his promise as easily as if it were a call on an ordinary acquaintance. Meanwhile, shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? I do take it. Nevertheless, as two o'clock draws near, I begin to grow a little fidgetty, and occupy a seat outside the hotel, awaiting my benevolent visitor. Soon after two, instead of M. Zurcher, an employé from the Mairie, in natty uniform, draws near; and, ascertaining who I am, delivers a letter. It was not exactly that which I wanted, although it is infinitely better than nothing. M. Zurcher writes that his pains have returned, and compel him to keep house; he encloses a letter to the commissaire of the Bagne. With that, and what I have besides, I shall make my way easily, he says. Shall I? There is no help for it, if I shall not. To the admiral at once. I shall find him, they tell me, at the Majorité, or Etat-Major de la Marine. I do not find him. He is not there, but at the Préfecture. There, I am introduced into an antechamber occupied by an aide-de-camp and some naval officers pacing to and fro, as if they were on a quarter-deck. Great politeness. My letter is sent in, and before many minutes I am admitted to the presence. "You are recommended by one of my oldest comrades," said the admiral, with unaffected good nature; "what can I do for you? ?" I explain that I wish to see the interior of the Bagne, and especially to speak to the forçat Fourrier. "Certainly." Addressing the aide-de-camp, "Write a request to the commissaire that Monsieur may see the Bagne and Fourrier. Only, you know, if he is under lock and key, he will not be visible to anybody." The dungeons at the Bagne for refractory subjects (indociles) are said to be something terrible. It is stated, that, if they were shown, their continuance would not be tolerated by public opinion. And yet there must be some means of preventing criminals from having their own way in further criminality. In any case, neither those cells nor their occupants are open to public inspection. "I do not think that probable," I interposed. "He has never incurred a single day's punishment." "So much the better; you will be able to see him, then. I remember hearing him mentioned before. He seems to have friends who take interest in him." At that moment, I noticed the direction of the admiral's eye. It glanced at the wound on my hat, which I had clean forgotten. Not being a diplomatist, I fear my face betrayed some slight symptom of mortification. Smiling, he added that I was to take to the EtatMajor an order to visit the arsenal, which contains the Bagne within its walls. There, they would give me a "planton," or sailor attendant, to conduct me to the commissaire of the Bagne. The audience is at an end. Thanks to the admiral's frank and simple manners, it has passed off much more agreeably than I anticipated. I retire with the aide-de-camp, who writes the necessary orders, and dismisses me with perfect courtesy. I go to the Majorité. They give me my planton, and we enter the gates of the arsenal together. Within the arsenal is a busy scene, resembling other dockyards and arsenals, except for the presence of the forçats performing various slavish work. It is, after all, a cheerful spot to labor in. There are trees and water, air and sunshine, glimpses of the town through the arsenal gates, with the mountains beyond all towering in the distance. It is a labyrinth of long ranges of buildings and naval stores, through which a stranger trying to thread his way would find himself incessantly cut off by water. For necessary daily communication, there are slight wooden bridges and ferry-boats worked by forçats. But for the shame and the public exposure, I should say that a convict would greatly prefer this place to penitentiaries, or any other form of isolated confinement. Nor do the forçats all look wretched. They crowd their carts over bridges with a run and a laugh. They wear their irons "with a difference." The ordinary set of culprits are riveted two and two, never separating, day nor night. "Eprouvés," tried, well-conducted prisoners, carry their irons singly, with no human clog attached to them. The costume is hideous red cap, red vest, and trousers of a frightfully ugly yellow. Of the three primitive colors, yellow is the least pleasing to many eyes. Yellow flowers (except in species, as the rose, where that hue is a rarity) are less sought for, I think, than blue and red. But then also there are good yellows and bad yellows. The forçat's yellow has a bright, staring, glaring, vulgar tinge, which catches the eye like a sign-post or a personal deformity, and is suggestive of pestilence, poisonous plants, moral jaundice, and everything else that is corrupt and offensive. A prisoner, who, like a bad shilling, comes back to the Bagne after being discharged, is distinguished by one yellow sleeve dishonorably contrasting with his red vest; after a second relapse, by two. It is rarely that a third arm is required to display a triple badge of disgrace. A green cap marks prisoners sentenced for life. My planton is an active, obliging little fellow, sharp as a needle, and probably not deaf to the remarks of visitors. Anxious to do the honors of the place, he would show me the Taureau, submarine steam-ram, which is to rip open ships' bellies under water, as the rhinoceros disembowels his antagonists when he catches them on his nasal horn. A gang of forçats passes us, showing their naked heads in profile. What a lot to frighten a phrenologist! I had already noticed some not at all bad faces, but these heads present everything that is exaggerated and unbalanced in cranial form. "Have you many educated persons here?" I ask. "Plenty; bankers, advocates, huissiers, notaries, priests. At the bazaar, where things made by the forçats are sold for their benefit, you will find exceed-| ingly well-mannered individuals." "We must reserve that and other things for to morrow." ton-quite a suite -I commence my round of in- I am naturally anxious to get at Fourrier, and give my companion a sketch of his story. He listens attentively. No harm will be done if he reports it. There is no appearance of being so near a prison. Nothing announces the home of criminals, most of whom have lost all hope on earth. A high-arched wooden bridge is the isthmus which conducts from the arsenal to the peninsula and the floating islands of punishment. The site of the locality, amidst blue waters and clear skies, would of itself give you any other idea than that of breathing an atmosphere of wickedness. So little has the Bagne the aspect of a prison, that you are inside it before you are aware. You simply behold buildings covering a large space of ground, widespread and rambling rather than lofty, with little to indicate their purpose. The first step to be taken now, is to present my-is the covering; but Toulon, be it remembered, is self to the commissaire and obtain his countenance. I am ushered to an upper room, where I find a gentleman in quiet but handsome uniform, behind a most business-looking library table. He receives me politely, but in the way in which you receive people when you have not the slightest idea what they are come about. He takes my letters, retires to the recess of a window to read them, and returns with an altered countenance and manner. "You are quite en règle, monsieur," he cordially observes. I bow, as in duty bound. "Perfectly en règle. We will do what we can to comply with your wishes. Monsieur Asterisk, if you please!" Monsieur Asterisk answers his superior's summons. He is a tall, stout man, with a broad, pale, colorless face, and a subdued expression of great intelligence. "Monsieur is an Englishman," continues the commissaire, "well recommended, who desires to see the interior of the Bagne, and also to speak with No. let me see," referring to the letter, "with No. 9999. You will please give him a competent guide." "Ah, No. 9999!" said M. Asterisk, raising his eyes to the ceiling to consult his memory. "No. 9999 is Fournier." “Extraordinary!" observed the chief. "I have only to name a number, and you at once name the party belonging to it." "After so many years of service, I have naturally acquired the faculty," M. Asterisk modestly replies. "The gentleman can easily see the Bagne and also speak with Fournier." "His name is Fourrier," I interposed, "Pierre François; in the Salle des Incurables." "The same. But, I beg pardon, he is Fournier; has always been Fournier at the Bagne." With so important and well-memoried an official it was not worth disputing about a letter; so I acquiesced in his orthography, and prepared to take my leave. "Tell Fournier to be in readiness. You can now visit all you require," said the commissaire, with a courteous smile. "Pray give my compliments to M. Zurcher. I shall be glad to hear of his better in the south. At the bed's head are placed the rations of black-brown bread allowed to each individual. All along the foot runs an iron bar, to which the chains are fastened when their wearers retire to rest. There is a Salle des Blessés, a ward for the wounded, and how they get wounded is often known only to the forçats themselves. There is a bath-room, a kitchen, and besides that a much larger and better kitchen for the hospital, where the cooking is superintended by worthy self-denying Sisters of Charity. That door opposite leads out of the Salle des Incurables. Fourrier is coming out to meet us. Would I like to see the hospital first? It is only up this flight of steps. Certainly. Very well; he can wait a few minutes at the bottom. The pans I notice on the steps contain disinfectant substances; for "the malady" has not spared the Bagne. The hospital, roomy, airy, light, is the acme of neatness and cleanliness. Not a trace of offensive smell perceptible. True, the patients are not numerous. One, an Arab, sitting up in bed to eat some soup, has the eyes of a wild-cat caught in a trap staring out of his fleshless face. The sheets are as white as you would wish for yourself; but there is still the chain fastening the sick man to his bed. It quits him only when he ceases to breathe. Down stairs again to find my man. That must be he, pale, thin, standing with his back to the wall, surrounded by a throng. There is quite a concourse of people of all sorts; other forçats, douaniers, employés, and I know not what, besides ourselves. Confidential talk is impossible, and I must shape the interview accordingly. Some people have real faces, others have only facial masks; but it is not hard to distinguish which is a face and which is only a mask put on. The individual before me has a face; and on it is written unmistakably, "Misfortune, when it cannot be got over, must be borne. I will go through with this, bearing it patiently, though sorrowfully." He trembles with emotion. (Another pair of eyes and ears afterwards informed me that, while I was in the hospital, the other forçats were at him with "Come, Fourrier, pack up your things! You are going away at last. Here is a Here let me, once for all, testify to the polite and great man come to let you out. Make up your bunobliging treatment which I met with from every onedle as fast as you can!" and such like teasing health." with whom I had to do at Toulon. With an adjutant, therefore, added to my plan speeches.) "You are Fourrier?" I said. |