“Then I am a liar,” Molan went on, “and you did not say just now that Madam Pierre de Bonnivet was a Van Dyck who had stepped out of a picture just as, according to you, the Blue Duchess has stepped from a picture by Burne-Jones. There is no need to be surprised, Camille. Comparison with pictures is a mania with painters. To them a woman or a landscape is only a bit of canvas without a frame. This little infirmity is to their mind what an ink stain is to us authors, and he displayed, in spite of his elegant attire as a man about town, a slight black stain upon the middle finger of his right hand where he held his pen. That is just like the rouge upon the actress’ face, the little professional mark. Yes or no, did you say that about Madam de Bonnivet?”
“It is quite right I said that,” I quickly replied, “but mention the fact that it was you who pointed this woman out to me, and that I have not been introduced to her. I told you, too, that I could see in her eyes a frightfully hard and bitter look. In spite of her beauty, elegance, and slenderness to me she seems almost ugly, and more than that—repulsive; I can quite understand Mademoiselle Favier’s impression.”
The look of gratitude which the actress threw me was a fresh admission of her liaison with my friend. Besides she no more thought of concealing it than he did, though for a different reason. She could not conceal it because she was so much in love, while he paraded the intrigue because he was not in love at all. He caught her look and resumed in his bantering tone—
“Ah, well, Camille, see how good I am. I have brought you some one to talk to you. He understands you already. Think what it will be when he has painted your portrait! For he is going to do so for me! Are you agreeable?”
“Perhaps your friend has not the time just now!”
“Did not I tell you that was the reason of our visit?” he replied. I myself was rather afraid that this project would fall through. “But time is up, you must be on the stage when the curtain rises,” I said. “Good-bye, mademoiselle.”
“No,” he continued, “good-bye till presently. Is it not so, Camille?”
“Certainly,” she said with a laugh. I saw by her eyes that she was experiencing a little emotion. “Allow me to say a word to your friend?” she added turning to me.
“Good!” I thought. “She is going to reproach him, and she will be right.” I fell into a melancholy reverie which contrasted with the place where I was, at least as much as did the delicate sensibility revealed by each of the young actress’ gestures and words. We had only been with her a quarter of an hour, and in that time the appearance of the corridor had changed. Feverish haste now betokened the approaching rise of the curtain and the fear of being too late. The call-boy went along knocking at a door here and there. Visitors hurriedly departed. The game of bezique went on in a neighbouring dressing-room, that of an actress who only appeared in the last act.
“Here I am,” Jacques said, interrupting my meditation by touching me on the shoulder, “let us get back to our box at once. If Camille does not see me when she appears on the stage, she will look for me in Madam de Bonnivet’s box and lose her power.”