“Would you prefer,” sneered the dramatic author, “to hear the plaints of Iphigenia or of Esther proclaimed ten paces away from a buffet laden with _foie gras_ sandwiches, punch, orangeade, chocolate and iced champagne? On my word of honour you seem to me admirable! But if you had the lightest tint of that transcendental irony, without which life does not present the slightest savour, you would find it exquisite that my pretty Blue Duchess has saved the honour, and perhaps the life, of my adorable Queen Anne, and that they met face to face—one playing her part as a fashionable Parisian hostess, respected and worshipped; the other giving her performance before an audience of the idle; while I myself am the third person. My only regret for the beauty of the situation is that I did not have an appointment with both during the day. Would you believe it? Since these happenings I desire Camille again, and I would retake her if I did not fear to spoil her masterpiece. Yes, the masterpiece of her rupture. For she has discovered it; there is no denying it. If André Mareuil had not laid down his humorous pen to become a Commissioner of Police, if he were still writing his _Art de rompre_ instead of drawing up regulations, I should submit the case to him. Have you ever thought of a more divine method of a mistress ridding herself of her lover and leaving in his mind an exquisite memory? That is the ideal end of love.” “Try at least to be ashamed of your egoism,” I interrupted. I realized that he was amusing himself by making my _naïveté_ display itself, and that he was joking. But actually the fact that he was unable to jest on such an occasion angered me, and I continued, touching his breast as I did so: “Have you, then, absolutely nothing there but a ream of paper and a bottle of ink, for the idea of this love, devotion and sorrow, only to inspire you with one more paradox instead of bringing tears from your eyes?”