I turned and walked away. The night was bright and mild, and the stars were out. A short distance off, I came face to face with Monsieur Voltaire. I had never liked this man, but in one aspect, and that was his earnest devotion to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. Something like sympathy made me stop him and say to him that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur would not act that night—nor any more I feared.
He gazed at me with those black, burning eyes of his, and then as if speaking to himself, repeated those lines of Ronsard’s about Mary Stuart:
|
Elle était de ce monde où les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin; Et, rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses, L’espace d’un matin. |
His voice was music when he spoke these words, for he felt them. I remained silent, and, after a while, he turned to me and taking me by the arm, said:
“Babache, you are an honest man. Come with me.”
CHAPTER XVI
THE SETTING OF A STAR
We returned arm in arm to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s house. It had not occurred to me to present myself uninvited, but without a word I followed this man, who had something compelling about him. We went straight to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s door, and the maid, who was watching, let us in.