WHEN in the autumn of 1892 I appeared for the first time at the Folies-Bergère I knew no one, absolutely no one, in Paris. Imagine then my surprise upon receiving one day a visiting card from one of the spectators on which these words were written in lead pencil:
“Oh, well, old girl, I am fiercely glad to see that you have tapped the till. We are here, a whole gang of us, two boxes full, and we want you to join us after the performance.
Your old pal.”
The card bore a name with which I was unacquainted.
This was some practical joke, or else the call-boy had made a slip in the address. I continued my disrobing without considering the matter further.
All at once a gentleman rushed into my dressing-room.
“Well, Mollie, my old girl, why don’t you reply to a comrade’s letter?”
But on seeing me in street costume he stopped short and cried:
“Well, but who are you? I thought you were Mollie Fuller!”
Then I understood that he had taken me for one of his old friends.