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Chandelle—Pitou, it probably appears strange to you that I should burst in on you now at this time of life, looking for traces of a father who went completely out of my life over twenty years ago.

Pitou—Oh—I understood you to say he was dead.

Chandelle—Yes, he’s dead, but (hesitates) Pitou, I wonder if you can understand if I tell you why I am here.

Pitou—Yes, perhaps.

Chandelle—(very earnestly) Monsieur Pitou, in America the men I see now, the women I know, all had fathers, fathers to be ashamed of, fathers to be proud of, fathers in gilt frames, and fathers in the family closet, Civil War fathers, and Ellis Island fathers. Some even had grandfathers.

Pitou—I had a grandfather. I remember.

Chandelle—(interrupting) I want to see people who knew him, who had talked with him. I want to find out his intelligence, his life, his record. (impetuously) I want to sense him—I want to know him—

Pitou—(interrupting) What was his name?

Chandelle—Chandelle, Jean Chandelle.

Pitou—(quietly) I knew him.