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to allow Our Royal Person to put him upon the nearest cross, with three nails, for whatever period we deem appropriate.”
    “Pass the wine, please,” said Pablo.
    * * *
    “It is a rough time for us,” said Jarry, “what with our play to go into production soon, but we shall give whatever service we can to this project.”
    “Agreed by all, then!” said Méliès. “Star Films takes the unprecedented step of collaborating with others! I shall set aside an entire week , that of Tuesday next, for the production of The Dreyfus Affair . Bring your pens, your brushes, your ideas! Mr. Satie, our piano at Théâtre Robert-Houdin is at your disposal for practice and for the première ; begin your plans now. And so, having decided the fate of France, let us visit the production facilities at the rear of the property, then return to the parlor for cigars and port!”
    * * *
    They sat in comfortable chairs. Satie played a medley of popular songs, those he knew by heart from his days as the relief piano player at the Black Cat; Méliès, who had a very good voice, joined Pablo and Rousseau (who was sorry he had not brought his violin) in a rousing rendition of “The Tired Workman’s Song.”
    Jarry and Proust sat with unlit cigars in their mouths.
    “Is it true you studied with Professor Bergson, at the Lycée Henri IV?” asked Marcel. “I was class of ’91.”
    “We are found out,” said Alfred. “We were class of all the early 1890s, and consider ourselves his devoted pupil still.”
    “Is it his views on time, on duration? His idea that character comes in instants of perception and memory? Is it his notion of memory as a flux of points in the mind that keeps you under his spell?” asked Proust.
    “He makes us laugh,” said Jarry.
    * * *
    They spent the rest of the evening—after meeting and bidding goodnight to the Méliès children, and after Madame Méliès rejoined them—playing charades, doing a quick round of Dreyfus Parcheesi, and viewing pornographic stereopticon cards, of which Georges had a truly wonderful collection.
    * * *
    They said their goodbyes at the front gate of the Montreuil house. Pablo had already gone, having a hot date with anyone at a certain street address, on his kangaroo bicycle; Rousseau walked the two blocks to catch an omnibus; Satie, as was his wont, strode off into the night at a brisk pace whistling an Aristide Bruant tune; he sometimes walked twenty kilometers to buy a piece of sheet music without a second thought.
    Marcel’s coachman waited. Jarry stood atop the Méliès wall, ready to step onto his ordinary. Georges and Madame had already gone back up the walkway.
    Then Marcel made a Proposal to Alfred, which, if acted upon, would take much physical activity and some few hours of their time.
    “We are touched by many things lately,” said Jarry. “We fear we grow sentimental. Thank you for your kind attention, Our Dear Marcel, but we must visit the theater, later to meet with Pablo to paint scenery, and our Royal Drug Larder runs low. We thank you, though, from the bottom of our heart, graciously.”
    And he was gone, silently, a blur under each gas lamp he passed.
    For some reason, during the ride back to Faubourg Ste.-Germain, Marcel was not depressed as he usually was when turned down. He too, hummed a Bruant song. The coachman joined in.
    Very well, very well, thought Proust. We shall give them a Dreyfus they will never forget.
    XI. The Enraged Umbrella
    I N THE PARK, TWO DAYS LATER, Marcel thought he was seeing a runaway carousel.
    “Stop!” he yelled to the cabriolet driver. The brake squealed. Marcel leapt out, holding his top hat in his hand. “Wait!” he called back over his shoulder.
    There was a medium-sized crowd, laborers, fashionable people out for a stroll, several tricycles and velocipedes parked nearby. Attention was all directed toward an object in the center of the crowd. There was a wagon nearby, with small machines all around it.
    What Marcel