“Well, monsieur! what do you say to our theatre?”
“That it would put many provincial theatres to shame.”
“And we flatter ourselves, too, that we give better performances than one sees in the provinces. We do not shrink from anything: comedy, vaudeville, opéra-comique! We play everything except tragedy.”
“Why that exception?”
“You will agree that in the best amateur company at least half of the performers are good for nothing and provoke laughter, which in our theatre is never prohibited; but we noticed that the audience always laughed more at tragedies than at other plays; and as we could not mistake that for applause, we have ceased to play any but merry pieces; now, when we cause laughter we can persuade ourselves that it is a sign of approval. There is always some way of sparing one’s self-esteem, you see. At our last performance we had a most complete success! We gave Porceaugnac, with all the scenic accessories; nothing was forgotten; I fancy that we bought all the syringes in Montmorency. But it was charming, and it made a great sensation. It was spoken of in Paris; we even had an article in the paper. You will agree, monsieur, that our honor is involved now in maintaining our reputation.”
I promised Madame de Marsan to do my best to make myself worthy to appear upon her stage; and we left it, to stroll through the garden. It was almost a park; it was possible to lose one’s self there, and I hoped to take advantage of that fact. There was a little clump of trees, a grotto, a bridge, which lacked nothing but water, dense, bosky groves, shaded paths, turf that was always green, several pretty little elevations, a subterranean path, a cliff, a waterfall, and all the games that can be played in a garden. It was a delicious spot, into which it seemed to me that ennui could never find its way. Madame de Marsan gave me a small bedroom overlooking the fields. I should have been delighted with it, except that it was a long way from hers. I reproached her for it, and she answered with a jest. Patience! perhaps my turn would come.
Meanwhile, it was incumbent on me to learn my part. Madame de Marsan wished to rehearse some scenes that night, and she left me to study. No constraint, no etiquette in the country.
“Here,” she said, “everyone does what he pleases—rises in the morning, goes out to walk, stays in the house, goes away, returns, as his fancy bids him. So long as you are prompt at meals, and, above all, at rehearsals, you are absolutely your own master.”
I promised to conform to the established rules, and buried myself among the trees to study the rôle of Almaviva. But the thought that I was alone in that house with Madame de Marsan—for servants and workmen do not count—that thought made my mind wander. What! I was under the same roof with a pretty woman, who allowed me to make love to her without apparent displeasure, who seemed indeed to manifest something more than interest in me—and I could be satisfied with anything less than a complete victory!—I saw that I had to do with an accomplished coquette, who perhaps pretended to be sensible to my attentions in order to keep me bound to her chariot for a longer time.
I looked forward to dining tête-à-tête with Madame de Marsan, but a tiresome neighbor came to call, and he dined with us. I had an idea that his presence was as disagreeable to her as to me, but, of course, she must seem to be delighted to see him. Luckily, at the table the neighbor talked for three; we were able to think of whatever was in our minds, and still the conversation did not languish. The old gentleman hardly gave himself time to breathe: he described his property to us in detail, from the main entrance to the garden wall; we knew just how many acres of land he had, and what his kitchen garden brought him in; how many trees he had planted, the number of his hens, how many eggs they laid in a week, what they were worth in the market, and a thousand other details no less interesting to us. But while he was talking, my eyes carried on a very different sort of conversation with Madame de Marsan. The neighbor, engrossed by his crops and his betterments, did not notice it. I discovered that loquacious people are sometimes very convenient. At last, about half-past seven, the neighbor concluded to go home, to see how many eggs his hens had laid during the day. He took his leave, and I was alone with Madame de Marsan. We went out for a walk in the garden; the verdure, the shadows, the silence, everything was conducive to tenderness. I tried to speak of love; the coquette replied only by repeating some of Rosine’s lines. I continued, paying no heed to her. She rebuked me.