“Ah! I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said, “I nearly knocked you over.” I pulled her toward me and, without reflecting, whispered to her, “Don’t dance any more, Mamma Lambquin, Chilly is dying.” She was purple, but her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she did not utter a word. “Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured, “I did not know I should make you so wretched!” But she was not listening to me any longer. She was putting on her cloak. “Are you leaving?” she asked me. “Yes,” I replied. “Will you drive me home? I will then tell you....” She wrapped a black fichu round her head and we both went downstairs, accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Maurice, who saw us into the carriage. She lived in the St. Germain neighborhood and I in the Rue de Rome. On the way the poor woman told me the following details: “You know, my dear,” she began, “I have a mania for somnambulists, and fortune tellers of all kinds. Well, last Friday (you see, I only consult them on a Friday) a woman who tells fortunes by cards said to me: ‘You will die a week after a man who is dark and not young and whose life is connected with yours.’ Well, my dear, I thought she was just making game, for there is no man whose life is connected with mine, as I am a widow and have never had any _liaison_. I therefore abused her for this, as I paid her seven francs. She charges ten francs to other people but seven francs to _artistes_. She was furious at my not believing her, and she seized my hands and said: ‘It’s no good yelling at me, for it is as I say. And if you want me to tell you the exact truth, it is a man who supports you, and even to be more exact still, there are two men who support you, the one dark and the other fair—It’s a nice thing, that!’ She had not finished her speech before I had given her such a slap as she had never had in her life, I can assure you. Afterwards, though, I puzzled my head to find out what the wretched woman could have meant. And all I could find was that the two men who support me, the one dark and the other fair, are our two managers: Chilly and Duquesnel. And, now you tell me that Chilly——” She stopped short, breathless with her story, and again seized with terror. “I feel stifled,” she murmured, and, in spite of the freezing cold, we lowered both the windows. On arriving I helped her up her four flights of stairs and after telling the _concierge_ to look after her, and giving the woman a twenty-franc piece to make sure that she would do so, I went home myself very much upset by all these incidents, as dramatic as they were unexpected, in the midst of a fête. Three days later Chilly died without ever recovering consciousness. Twelve days later poor Lambquin died. To the priest who gave her absolution she said: “I am dying because I listened to and believed the demon.” CHAPTER XVII I RETURN TO THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE