. . Clearly, they had never owned anything subject to attachment. Still, an uneasiness had risen. The word was paralyzing. Each one saw himself seated on a bench in prison, surrounded by little baskets of food brought by friends.

. . . The danger of an attachment seemed to have been removed. Vallette, editor-in-chief, consulted a scrap of paper:

“First the name. Are we keeping the name of La Pléiade?”

I didn’t dare say it, but I found this starry title a little old-fashioned. Why not Scorpio or the Big Dipper? And groups of poets had already used that name—under Ptolemy Philadelphus, under Henry III and under Louis XIII. Nevertheless, the name was adopted.

And the color of the cover?

“Butter yellow.” “Mat white.” “Apple green.” “No! Like a horse I saw—dappled gray chestnut. No! No!”

Vallette didn’t quite remember the horse he had seen.

“The color of tobacco with milk poured over it.”

“Shall we make the experiment?”

A bowl of milk was brought, but no one offered his tobacco to be wasted.

We began to go through the series of colors, but couldn’t find the right words. Verlaine should have been there. Without him we tried to make do with gestures, spread fingers, impressionistic attitudes, suspended movements, forefingers stabbing the air.

“And you, Renard?”

“Oh, I don’t care.”

I feigned indifference, but in truth I adore the green of certain magazines after they have been washed by the weather in the kiosques.

“And you, Court?”

“I side with the majority.”

“Everybody is siding with the majority. What is the majority for?”

It was concentrating on mauve. Mauve curtains are so pretty! And then the word rhymes with alcove, and the association of ideas brought a humid gleam to the eye of Aurier: perhaps he knows an elegant great lady.

Vallette began again:

“On the back cover we will put (won’t we?) the titles of our published works.”

No one said a word.

“And of works to be published.”

Everyone tried to speak. Aurier: “Le Vieux;” Vallette: “Babylas” Dumur: “Albert.” And the list grew longer, full of titles as though it were descended from the Crusades.

“And you, Renard?”

“I have no titles. But, as for copy, I have a lot of that!”

I seemed to imply that they had none. They looked at me sidewise.

“Now about the format,” said Vallette. “Perhaps we should have started with that.”

“Don’t care.” “Don’t give a damn—”

“Excuse me,” said Aurier. “We need air, and margins, wide margins. The text must be able to move about the paper.”

“Yes, but that has to be paid for.” “Oh!” “I request the format in 18vo so it will fit my bookcase . . .”

. . . “Now let’s take a look at the contents. Everybody must contribute to the first issue.”

“We’ll be like sardines in a can.”

The review was cut up into slices.

“I’ll take ten.