“What!” he cried, “don’t you know little Favier? You pretend to live in Paris! Not that I blame you for not frequenting the theatres. Seeing the kind of plays usually put on, I think it was high time they gave us young ones a chance.”
“That does not tell me about little Favier,” I insisted.
“Well! Camille Favier is the Blue Duchess. She acts with talent, fantasy and grace! I discovered her. A year ago she was at the Conservatoire. I saw her there and recognized her talent, and when I sent my play to the Vaudeville, I told them I wanted her to take the part. They engaged her, and now she is famous. My luck is contagious. But you must do her portrait for me as she is in the play, a symphony in blue major! It will be a fine subject for you for the next Salon. I repeat I am very lucky. Then what a head she has for you: twenty-two years old, a complexion like a tea-rose, a mouth sad in repose and tender when smiling, blue eyes to complete the symphony, pale, pale, pale blue with a black point in the middle, which sometimes increases in size; her hair is the colour of oriental tobacco, and she is slender, supple and young. She lives with her mother in a third floor in the Rue de la Barcuellére, in your neighbourhood. That detail is good as a human document. People talk of the theatre’s corruption: nine hundred francs rent, one servant, and an outlook on a convent garden! She believes in her art, and in authors! She believes too much in them.”
He said these words with a smile, the meaning of which was unmistakable. His remarks had been accompanied by an insolent and sensual look, gleaming and self-satisfied. I had no doubt as to the feeling the pretty actress inspired in him. He told me about these private matters in a very loud voice, with that apparent indiscretion which implies thoughtlessness and so well conceals design. But this sort of gossip always has a prudent limit. Besides, the diners at the next table were three retired generals, to interrupt whose conversation then gun-shot would have been required. The noises made by the thirty or forty persons dining were sufficient to drown even Jacques’ most distinct phrases. So there was really no reason for my companion to speak in low tones, as I did in questioning him. But what a symbol of our two destinies! I instinctively experienced, before even knowing Mademoiselle Favier, the shameful timidity of the sentiment of which Jacques experienced the joy.
“You are paying court to her, that is what you mean?” I asked him.
“No, she is courting me,” he said with a laugh, “or rather has been doing so. But why should I not tell you, for if I introduce you to her, she will tell you everything in five minutes? In fact, she is my mistress. With my reputation, my investments, my books, I can marry whom I please; and there is plenty of time. The pear is ripe. But if we were always reasonable, we should be only common people, should not we? She began it. If you had seen, at rehearsal, how she stealthily devoured me with her eyes! I took good care not to notice her. She is a coquette and a half. An author who has a mistress at the theatre when he does not act himself, is responsible for a serious orthographical error. You know the proverb: the architect does not hobnob with the mason. But after the first performance, after the battle was won, I let myself go. Here is another human document: little Favier had gone through the Conservatoire, had been on the stage, and my dear fellow she was still virtuous, perfectly virtuous. Do you understand me?”
“Poor girl!” I cried involuntarily.
“No, no!” Jacques replied shrugging his shoulders. “Some lover must be first, and it is better to have a Jacques Molan than a pupil of the Conservatoire, or, as is usually the case, one of the professors there, is it not? But I am her poesy, her real romance to tell her friends. I have been kind to her. She desired our love concealed from her mother and we did so. She desired meetings in cemeteries at the graves of great men and I have gone there. Can you imagine me, at my age, with a bunch of violets in my hand, waiting for a friend with my elbows sentimentally resting upon the tomb of Alfred de Musset, a poet whom I detest? Quite a student’s idyll, is it not? I repeat it is very foolish, but I found her so amiable and so fresh the first time. She 'rested me’ from this Paris in which everything is vanity.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Now?” he repeated, and the insolent and sensual expression came into his eyes once more. “You want me to confess? That is two months ago, and a two months’ idyll is a little less fresh, amiable and restful.” Then in a lower and more confidential tone he asked: “Do you know pretty Madam Pierre de Bonnivet?”