“De l’ordre! Du silence!” cried M. Paul. “Is this chaos?”, he demanded; and there was a hush. With a dozen words, and as many gestures, he turned out half the persons present, and obliged the remnant to fall into rank. Those left were all in costume: they were the performers, and this was the green-room. M. Paul introduced me. All stared and some tittered. It was a surprise: they had not expected the Englishwoman would play in a _vaudeville_. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes as round as beads. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear or bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of shining off before hundreds—my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in the midst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M. Paul held her and all the rest in check. Having surveyed and criticized the whole troop, he turned to me. “You, too, must be dressed for your part.” “Dressed—dressed like a man!” exclaimed Zélie St. Pierre, darting forwards; adding with officiousness, “I will dress her myself.” To be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I had consented to take a man’s name and part; as to his dress—_halte là!_ No. I would keep my own dress, come what might. M. Paul might storm, might rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voice as resolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady in utterance. He did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he would he stood silent. But Zélie again interposed. “She will make a capital _petit-mâitre_. Here are the garments, all—all complete: somewhat too large, but—I will arrange all that. Come, chère amie—belle Anglaise!” And she sneered, for I was not “belle.” She seized my hand, she was drawing me away. M. Paul stood impassable—neutral. “You must not resist,” pursued St. Pierre—for resist I did. “You will spoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of the company, sacrifice everything to your _amour-propre_. This would be too bad—monsieur will never permit this?” She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave her one, and then he gave me one. “Stop!” he said slowly, arresting St. Pierre, who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybody awaited the decision. He was not angry, not irritated; I perceived that, and took heart. “You do not like these clothes?” he asked, pointing to the masculine vestments. “I don’t object to some of them, but I won’t have them all.” “How must it be, then? How accept a man’s part, and go on the stage dressed as a woman? This is an amateur affair, it is true—a _vaudeville de pensionnat;_ certain modifications I might sanction, yet something you must have to announce you as of the nobler sex.” “And I will, Monsieur; but it must be arranged in my own way: nobody must meddle; the things must not be forced upon me. Just let me dress myself.”