I knew that Camille was incapable of breaking a promise made with such seriousness as to be almost solemnity. She had that trait common to all persons, men or women, who attach great importance to their feelings: a fastidious scrupulousness in keeping unwritten agreements, reciprocal engagements. Therefore I insisted with the greatest energy upon Jacques conforming strictly to the condition which the actress had imposed upon him, and I myself, great though the cost was to me, had the courage to observe with the greatest rigour the programme of absence and silence, the wisdom of which I understood. Around certain moral fevers, just as around certain physical ones, there is darkness, suppression of motion, and a total suspension of life. In spite of my absolute faith in Camille’s word, I was not without uneasiness when I repaired a few days later to Madam de Bonnivet’s party. I knew that the poor Blue Duchess, if not quite restored to health, was at least well enough to reappear at the theatre. When I say that I followed the programme drawn up by her with the greatest rigour, I must add that I allowed myself once to go and see her act without, as I thought, breaking the agreement, since she did not see me sitting in the pit, and I had a feeling of relief at seeing that there was no difference in her acting. I came to the conclusion that she had taken to her art again, as she had said to me, to that cult of the theatre which had been the naïve enthusiasm of the dreams of her youth. I hoped that that love which never deceives would cure the wound made by the other. But in the carriage which conveyed Jacques and I to the club, where we again dined together, this confidence gave place to apprehension, in spite of my companion’s optimism, he having become once more a person of an imperturbable assurance, which seemed born to manœuvre in false situations. “I am curious,” he said to me, “to know what she has prepared for her audience of swells. She has promised the great scene from _La Duchesse Blue_ with Bressoré, and then a few monologues and imitations. You don’t know her in that light, do you? She has like every actor or actress her monkey side.” “Imitations!” I repeated. “Fashionable people are admirable. They no sooner have in their hands an artist of talent than they become possessed of a single idea, to degrade that talent by forcing the possessor to become a plaything for them. If it is a painter like Miraut, they order from him portraits with a disgusting want of expression to put upon bon-bon boxes! If he is a man of letters like you, they make him write bad prose and verse at a moment’s notice! If he is a musician, he has to produce a piece for the piano at once! In the case of an actress like Camille, with ardour, temperament, and passion, they make a parade of her. Good God, what foolishness it is! What is going to happen to-night?”