Desparre, who sat on and on in his seat, motionless as ever, and always stone, marble white; his eyes glaring through their drooping lids at the little stage on which the battered old courtier was whispering his compliments.
Presently however, the latter turned and descended the foot-high platform, casting his eyes,--for him, timidly and, undoubtedly, furtively--at the silent, motionless figure sitting there. Then he turned round to the actors and actresses who, themselves, had observed Desparre, while, in a totally different tone from that in which he had previously addressed them, he said:
"Begone. Quit the stage. Your parts are played. And," he muttered to himself, "played with sufficient effect."
As they obeyed his orders--he watching them depart from the scene of what was undoubtedly their triumph (never before had those wandering comedians achieved such a success--in more ways than one), he went over slowly to where the Duke sat and touched him gently on the shoulder. The withered, battered old roué, who had known the secrets and intrigues of the most intriguing court that ever existed in Europe, had still something left that did duty for a heart.
"Come, Desparre. Come," he said. "The company has broken up. It is time to--to--to take the waters."
But Monsieur le Duc, sitting there, his eyes still fixed on the stage, made him no answer, though his lips moved once, and once he turned those eyes and gazed at the old Chevalier by his side.
"Come, Desparre," the other repeated. "If not the waters, at least to your apartments. Come."
Then, old and feeble though he was, he placed his hands under Desparre's shoulders and endeavoured to assist him to rise.