Those few among the players who shared the dark secret which was to make this day so memorable in the life of the author of the new comedy, were astonished by a calmness that was to them unnatural. And they could not help marveling how a man whose very life depended on the whim of a harsh-tempered and capricious woman should be able to mask his thoughts and to control his feelings in a manner so remarkable.
The terraces of the palace which overlooked the beautiful park in which it stood were thronging already with a mob of gallants and court ladies. Their wonderful clothes gave a very second-rate air to the tawdry finery affected by most of the players. Even the cloak of Shakespeare himself erred a little, but that was on the side of modesty.
One young fop was quick to turn this fact to account. Having a reputation for wit, and being surrounded by those in whose eyes he had an ambition to shine, he gravely accosted the actor. He removed his plumed hat with a sweeping gesture and made a low bow.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in a loud voice which attracted general notice. “Pray excuse the liberty I take in addressing you, but I admire the style of your cloak so much that I would fain ask the name of your tailor.”
In spite of the audible tittering of fine ladies and the delighted guffaws of gallant gentlemen, the playwright showed the perfect unconcern of one who has his own private standard of men and things. He did not reply, but quietly looked the impertinent coxcomb up and down as if he were a new species of animal with whom he was not yet acquainted.
The fop was nettled by this nonchalance.
“Well, sir?” he said impudently. “Give me your tailor’s name I pray you, in order that I may have the great felicity of taking the air in a cloak exactly its fellow.”
The playwright shook his head with an air of polite deprecation.
“I have too kindly a feeling toward an honest craftsman,” he said.
“God’s death, sir! what do you mean?”