I ran behind the scenes. Dorval was already on the stage, uncurling her hair and pulling her flowers to pieces; she had at times her moments of transports of passion, exceeding those of the actress. The scene-shifters were altering the scenes, whilst Dorval was acting her part. The audience applauded frantically. "A hundred francs," I cried to the shifters, "if the curtain be raised again before the applause ceases!" In two minutes' time the three raps were given: the curtain rose and the scene-shifters had won their hundred francs. The fifth act began literally before the applause for the fourth had died down. I had one moment of acute anguish. In the middle of the terrible scene where the two lovers, caught in a net of sorrows, are striving to extricate themselves, but can find no means of either living or dying together, a second before Dorval exclaimed, "Then I am lost!" I had, in the stage directions, arranged that Bocage should move the armchair ready to receive Adèle, when she is overwhelmed at the news of her husband's arrival. And Bocage forgot to turn the chair in readiness. But Dorval was too much carried away by passion to be put out by such a trifle. Instead of falling on the cushion, she fell on to the arm of the chair, and uttered a cry of despair, with such a piercing grief of soul wounded, torn, broken, that the whole audience rose to its feet. This time the cheers were not for me at all, but for the actress and for her alone, for her marvellous, magnificent performance! The _dénoûment_ is known; it is utterly unexpected, and is summed up in a single phrase of six startling words. The door is burst open by M. de Hervey just as Adèle falls on a sofa, stabbed by Antony. "Dead?" cries Baron de Hervey.