And he came forward, took my hand, and raised it to his lips. He is a little finicking man, with a little gray beard, and the red rosette in his button-hole, and a most consummate ease of manner.
‘Monsieur,’ I replied, ‘you are too amiable. And you, madame. I cannot sufficiently thank you both.’
Morenita rushed at me with a swift, surprising movement, her cloak dropping from her shoulders, and taking both my hands, she kissed me impulsively.
‘You have genius,’ she said; ‘and I am proud. I am ashamed that I cannot read English; but I have the intention to learn in order to read your books. Our Diaz says wonderful things of them.’
She is a tall, splendidly-made, opulent creature, of my own age, born for the footlights, with an extremely sweet and thrilling voice, and that slight coarseness or exaggeration of gesture and beauty which is the penalty of the stage. She did not in the least resemble a La Vallière as she stood there gazing at me, with her gleaming, pencilled eyes and heavy, scarlet lips. It seemed impossible that she could refine herself to a La Vallière. But that woman is the drama itself. She would act no matter what. She has always the qualities necessary to a rôle. And the gods have given her green eyes, so that she may be La Vallière to the very life.
I began to thank her for her superb performance.
‘It is I who should thank you,’ she answered. ‘It will be my greatest part. Never have I had so many glorious situations in a part. Do you like my limp?’
She smiled, her head on one side. Success glittered in those orbs.
‘You limp adorably,’ I said.
‘It is my profession to make compliments,’ Villedo broke in; and then, turning to Morenita, ‘N’est-ce pas, ma belle créature? But really’—he turned to me again—‘but very sincerely, all that there is of most sincerely, dear madame, your libretto is made with a virtuosity astonishing. It is du théâtre. And with that a charm, an emotion...! One would say—’