“But what of little Favier?” I asked.
“You have put your finger on the sore,” he replied. “I have promised to see her home. I cannot desert her at the last moment.”
“Ah, well!” I said, “desert Madam de Bonnivet. She does not play in the piece, and as you admitted just now, is a coquette and a half. She will invite you again.”
“In the meantime, I have accepted,” he interrupted, “that was the coquettish thing to do. Playing with women would be very simple if it only consisted of feigning coldness. There are times when one has to take a high hand with them, while at others one must obey their lightest caprice. So I repeat I have accepted. I must find a way of getting rid of Camille. Good,” he said after a moment’s silence; “I think I have it, if you will help me. I will present you to Madam de Bonnivet. She will invite you to supper; she is a woman of that sort. You will refuse.”
“I should refuse in any case,” I replied. “But I do not understand your scheme.”
“You will see later,” he said, his eyes again expressing the joy he felt in performing before a sympathetic audience of one; “give me the pleasure of scheming and promise to do something else for me. Oh, it is nothing wrong, noble person. This is the interval. Before going to see Queen Anne, we will go and see Camille again. It is all in the scheme. What a good house there is to-night!”
The curtain had fallen amid enthusiastic applause and frequent calls, while Jacques associated me, almost without my consent, with his trickery. I had a good mind to refuse, for it was scarcely in accordance with my recent indignation. My scruples gave way to my curiosity to know how this M. Célemére of literature would escape from the snare in which he had entangled himself. At least that was the excuse I found for myself. To-day I think I yielded simply on account of the attraction the pretty actress had for me. A person should never be too severe about another’s deceit. The most scrupulous are ready to accept and aid their schemes, when they are in accordance with their own secret desires. The real cynical truth was that we went into the wings to reach the retreat where the pseudo-Burne-Jones was waiting for us, as an actress waits. Though the actress’ affection for her lover was sincere, she was none the less the fashionable comédienne who had to humour her admirers, and she could not even keep the seclusion of her modest dressing-room intact. Voices were audible as we approached it. Jacques listened to them for a moment with a nervous expression of face which made me forgive him for much. If he was teasing it was because he was jealous. Consequently his unconcerned mockery was a pretence. I learned once more from his example that there is not necessarily any connexion between jealousy and love.
“Camille is not alone,” he said.
“Then we will return later,” I replied. “She will prefer to talk to you more privately, and it is better, too, seeing what you say to her.”
“On the contrary,” he replied with a sudden gay smile in a low tones, “I can recognize the two voices, they belong to Tournade and Figon. You don’t know them, do you? Figon is wonderful; you shall see him. He is a very fine specimen of a snob, a disgusting helot of vanity. Tournade is the son of the great candle maker; everybody burns Tournade candles. Of course he is worth millions of francs, and I am inclined to think he is willing to lay a few at Camille’s feet. Ah,” he went on still more maliciously, “you are going to lose the flower of your first impression. The little woman has a heart and more delicacy than her profession allows, but a person is not at the theatre for nothing, and she does not always take the same tone she did with us just now. Come along, be brave!”