A small stage had been put up at the end of Mme. Mauperin's drawing-room, and a leafy screen, made of branches of pine and flowering shrubs, hid the footlights from view. Renee, with the help of her drawing-master, had painted the drop-scene, which looked something like the banks of the Seine. On each side of the stage was a hand-painted poster which read as follows: BRICHE THEATRE TO-DAY THE CAPRICE AND PIERROT, BIGAMIST The names of the actors were at the end of the bill. All the chairs in the house were placed closely together in rows in front of the stage, and the ladies, in evening dress, were seated, their skirts, their laces, the flashing of their diamonds, and their white shoulders all mingling together. The two doors at the other end of the room leading into the dining-room and the small _salon_ had been taken off their hinges, and the masculine part of the audience, in white neckties, were grouped together there and standing on tip-toe. The curtain rose on the first scene of _The Caprice_. Renee was very lively as Mme. de Lery; Henri, in the role of husband, proved himself a talented amateur actor, as so many young men of a cold temperament, and grave society men, often do. Noemi, well sustained by Henri, admirably prompted by Denoisel, and slightly carried away by seeing the large audience, played her touching part as the neglected wife very passably. This was a great relief to Mme. Bourjot, who was seated in the front row anxiously watching her daughter. Her vanity had been alarmed by the thought of a fiasco. The curtain fell, and amid the applause were heard shouts for "_All the actors!_" Her daughter had not made herself ridiculous, and the mother was delighted with this great success and gave herself up complacently to listening to that Babel of voices, opinions, and criticisms, which at amateur dramatic performances succeeds the applause and continues it, as it were, in a sort of murmur. In the midst of it all she heard vaguely one phrase, spoken near her, that came to her distinctly and seemed to rise above the general hubbub. "Yes, it's his sister, I know," some one was saying; "but for the role he takes I don't think he is sufficiently in love with her; he is really far too much in love with his wife--didn't you notice?" The lady who was speaking saw that Mme. Bourjot was listening, and, leaning towards her neighbour, whispered something to her. This little incident made Mme. Bourjot turn very serious. After an interval the curtain was once more raised, and Henri Mauperin appeared as Pierrot, but not arrayed in the traditional calico blouse and black cap. He was an Italian Pierrot, with a straight felt hat, and was entirely clothed in satin from his coat to his slippers. There was a movement among the ladies, which meant that they thought both the man and the costume charming, and then the buffoonery began.