“Can you not see it? To-day you—you are very charming, but you are merely you. You have nothing, you are nothing. You have a room, perhaps, for which you pay seventy francs a month. Am I not right? You are not happy. You are hidden.... But then comes a wonderful night. You make the great success. Paris is at your feet. Paris adores you.... What does it mean? Ah, mademoiselle, one can scarcely imagine it. It means a career, a great success in life. It means to be adored, to have all that a beautiful woman can desire.... It means applause and the envy of all the world—everything! everything!... What a change! What a wonderful change!” “Yes,” she said, her eyes glowing. “It means that famous men will compete for your favor. You will be pointed out everywhere, received everywhere.... The papers will speak of your every movement.... You will be happy.” “Yes,” she said. Then his manner changed, his enthusiasm seemed to die, and he looked steadily into her face. “But before it all comes one must enter the _Académie_.” “It is so.” “Mademoiselle, do you want very much to do so?” “Oh, greatly! greatly!” “Then it shall be. I guarantee it.” “Oh, monsieur!” He leaned over the table, his face serious now, his handsome eyes eager. “If mademoiselle will be kind,” he said. She looked at him an instant and let her eyes fall. “Ah,” she said. “I love you.... I adore you.” “No,” she replied, with the merest hint of a smile. “It is not so. You do not love me.” “You are very lovely.... You are poor—you shall be rich. You are unknown—you shall be famous.... And I love you.” She did not lift her eyes now, but sat very still and looked at her plate. Her face told him nothing; it had not altered its expression of detached gravity—and it intrigued him, made her the more desirable because he could not understand her. Her lips quivered, she closed her eyes and drew a little breath which was almost a sigh. “It cannot be, monsieur.” He sat erect, astonished, really astonished. “You—you refuse?” “Yes, monsieur.” “You refuse fame and wealth and all that may be yours?” “It is necessary, monsieur.” “And why? Why?” “Because, monsieur, I love, and I am happy.... I am faithful.... I am very happy.” He stared, unbelieving. Then, “It is the American officer—this Capitaine Ware?” “Yes, monsieur.” “You—you throw it all away for him—for this foreigner? You throw away your chance—your career?... It is absurd, impossible!... But look, mademoiselle. These Americans they do not remain. There is the war. To-morrow, the next day, he may be ordered away—he may be sent back to America.... He will go away from you and leave you lonely.... For a week, a month, will you throw away your life? Oh, mademoiselle, think! It would be terrible.”