"Atrocious!" said I.
"But she is a woman in a million."
"She is a great actress," I said reverently.
"I could never approve the marriage," he faltered. "What do you think?"
"Out of the question! I have no sympathy with either of them."
"You humbug! Why, there is a tear running down your nose!"
"There are two running down yours," I snapped; "a General should know better."
And why has the doll in the pink silk dress recalled this to me? Well, you see, to-morrow will be New Year's Day and the doll is a gift for my godchild—and the name of my godchild's mother is "Jeanne de Lavardens." Oh, I have nothing to say against her as a mother, the children idolise her! I admit that she has conquered the General, and that Georges is the proudest husband in France. But when I think of the parts I could have written for her, of the lustre the stage has lost, when I reflect that, just to be divinely happy, the woman deliberately declined a worldwide fame—Morbleu! I can never forgive her for it, never—the darling!
THE LAST EFFECT
Jean Bourjac was old and lazy. Why should he work any more? In his little cottage he was content enough. If the place was not precisely gay, could he not reach Paris for a small sum? And if he had no neighbours to chat with across the wall, weren't there his flowers to tend in the garden? Occasionally—because one cannot shake off the interests of a lifetime—he indulged in an evening at the Folies- Bergère, or Olympia, curious to witness some Illusion that had made a hit.