“Are you going to be quiet?” she said. “I have already told you that I would put up with you if you never spoke of books or the theatre.” When she addressed the young man, he looked at her grinning with stupidity, and she continued: “If Molan does not bring you into his next play, he will be good to you. What do you think he has just told me, Jacques, about Gladys, his old mistress; you know her, the woman you called the 'Gothen du Gotha,’ because of her love affairs with smart people. She left him for a counter-jumper; and now she has left the counter-jumper to live with a lord, so we can recognize her again, M. de Figon says.” “Come,” Tournade interposed with the air of authority of a smart man who does not wish another man of his own set to be treated with a lack of respect in the presence of ordinary literary men or painters; “you know very well that Louis was joking, and it is not kind of you to chaff him. You would be the first to grieve if you saw his name in some newspaper.” “First of all,” she replied turning to him, “these gentlemen are not journalists; find out to whom you are talking, my boy. For a day when you have not been drinking, you are missing a fine opportunity for silence. Besides if you are not satisfied you know this is my dressing-room.” She had such an ugly look as she uttered, with increasing bitterness in her voice, these insolent remarks, and her intention of getting rid of these two young men was so obvious, that I had a feeling of shame and almost pity for them, and especially for Tournade, who though he looked like a brutal and vulgar man, had some pride and blood in his veins. He contented himself with answering by a laugh as common as himself and a shrug of the shoulders, while Jacques said— “We came to pay our compliments to you, little Duchess, but it does not appear to be the evening for politeness.” “It is always so for you and your friend,” she said, turning to us her face which had become tender once more, and her shining eyes which uttered, proclaimed, and cried aloud this phrase: “Here is my lover whom I love, and I am proud of him; I want you to know him, to quote him; I want the whole world to know him.” “Thank you,” said Jacques. Without doubt his fatuity had been sufficiently fed. It displeased him to triumph too openly over a Tournade or a Figon, for he went on: “Allow me just a little criticism?” Camille cast a fresh glance at him now, somewhat uneasily, as she went on putting the rouge on her face, and he began to quote two insignificant remarks I had made concerning the excessive emphasis at two places in her part. One of them concerned the manner in which the actress had to say to a friend, “I do not want him,” speaking of the husband she loved; the other was a gesture on recognizing the writing on the address of a letter.