The curtain had fallen amid enthusiastic applause and frequent calls, while Jacques associated me, almost without my consent, with his trickery. I had a good mind to refuse, for it was scarcely in accordance with my recent indignation. My scruples gave way to my curiosity to know how this M. Célemére of literature would escape from the snare in which he had entangled himself. At least that was the excuse I found for myself. To-day I think I yielded simply on account of the attraction the pretty actress had for me. A person should never be too severe about another’s deceit. The most scrupulous are ready to accept and aid their schemes, when they are in accordance with their own secret desires. The real cynical truth was that we went into the wings to reach the retreat where the pseudo-Burne-Jones was waiting for us, as an actress waits. Though the actress’ affection for her lover was sincere, she was none the less the fashionable _comédienne_ who had to humour her admirers, and she could not even keep the seclusion of her modest dressing-room intact. Voices were audible as we approached it. Jacques listened to them for a moment with a nervous expression of face which made me forgive him for much. If he was teasing it was because he was jealous. Consequently his unconcerned mockery was a pretence. I learned once more from his example that there is not necessarily any connexion between jealousy and love. “Camille is not alone,” he said. “Then we will return later,” I replied. “She will prefer to talk to you more privately, and it is better, too, seeing what you say to her.” “On the contrary,” he replied with a sudden gay smile in a low tones, “I can recognize the two voices, they belong to Tournade and Figon. You don’t know them, do you? Figon is wonderful; you shall see him. He is a very fine specimen of a snob, a disgusting helot of vanity. Tournade is the son of the great candle maker; everybody burns Tournade candles. Of course he is worth millions of francs, and I am inclined to think he is willing to lay a few at Camille’s feet. Ah,” he went on still more maliciously, “you are going to lose the flower of your first impression. The little woman has a heart and more delicacy than her profession allows, but a person is not at the theatre for nothing, and she does not always take the same tone she did with us just now. Come along, be brave!” He knocked at the door with his cane in a way which somewhat contradicted his words. There was a certain amount of authority combined with nervousness in his knock. “Decidedly there is more in it than he is willing to admit,” I said to myself while the door was opening. Two lamps and several candles all lighted had made the atmosphere of the narrow room stifling, and there were in it besides the actress and her dresser, the persons Jacques had mentioned.