“Whose invitation I will refuse. That is agreed.” He took my arm and one of the staff opened most respectfully for us the communicating door between the stage and the auditorium. As we mounted the staircase my friend continued: “As a recompense to you, I will let you into one of the details of the plan which will enable me to get rid of Camille this evening. You will see what a good idea it is. With women, especially actresses, I believe in tremendous untruths. Remember the receipt. They are the only sort which succeed, because they do not believe any one would have the audacity to invent such stories. Presently during the last act I shall have a letter brought to me which I shall pretend to read. You are there! I shall display great astonishment and scribble a few words upon my card which I leave with you. Then I shall go out. Camille will have seen it all and will be uneasy. She will play her great scene with nervous force. That is what is required. Afterwards you will take my card to her, on which I shall explain that Fomberteau—you know him well, don’t you? No. He is one of the few critics who has not picked holes in the Duchess, and on that account Camille loves him—that Fomberteau has had this evening an altercation with a colleague and wants to see me so that I may act on his behalf. I shall not be able to refuse. You will confirm the story. She believes you and the feat will be accomplished. But Madam de Bonnivet’s box is 32, and we have passed it. Good, here it is.” He knocked at the door as he said this, but the knock was more deferential than the one just before had been at the dressing-room door. A man in a black coat opened the door to us with a smile, greeted us and disappeared. It was Bonnivet to whom I was introduced, then I was presented to Madam de Bonnivet, and then to the Vicomte de Senneterre, who was the “beater.” I was soon sitting upon one of the chairs vacated by one of these gentlemen. The lady was picking bits of frosted raisin from a box with a pair of golden tongs. She ate them, showing her small white teeth as she did so with a sort of sensual cruelty. “Are you going to paint little Favier’s portrait, M. la Croix? Molan told me you were,” she asked. “She is a pretty girl. I hope you will give her another expression though. If the dear master were not here I would say that when she is not talking she is like the classic cow watching the train pass.”