He returned to Paris late in the evening. He would go to Diane’s flat after she had returned from the theater. She would be a little sleepy, and comfortable, and comforting. She would wear one of those loose, clinging, silky things, and she would take him in her arms, and he would let down her beautiful dark blue-black hair, and then he would make her a coronet of the red berries. He would make her his queen.... He was too agitated to dine that evening. He walked the streets of Paris, clasping the red berries wrapped in tissue paper. He kept thinking: “Now she is resting between the acts. Now she is dancing a _pas seul_ in the second act. Now she is giving her imitation of Yvette Guilbert. Now she is taking a call. Now the manager speaks to her, congratulating her—curse him! Now she awaits her cue to go on again.” He was infinitely patient. He restrained his wild impetus to rush to the theater. He hung about the streets. He meant to stage-manage his effect with discretion. He waited some time after the theater was closed. Then, very slowly, he walked in the direction of her flat. As he mounted the stairs, he began to realize that he was very exhausted. He wished that he had not foregone his dinner. However, after the first rapturous meeting with Diane, he would take a glass of wine. Very quietly he slipped the key in the lock, and let himself in. (He had always had a key to Diane’s flat, which was in effect _his_ flat.) Directly he had passed the door he heard loud sounds of laughter. He swore inwardly. How aggravating! Diane had brought home some of her friends! There were evidently a good many of them, from the noise and ribaldry. In the passage were several bottles and glasses. He crept along silently to the _portière_ concealing the _salon_. He could hear Diane’s voice. She was speaking, and after each sentence the company screamed with laughter. Ah! she was entertaining them with one of her famous imitations. He stood there and listened. He made a tiny crack in the curtain and peeped through. Diane was doing a funny little strut, and speaking in a peculiar way. He listened and watched for three or four minutes before he realized the truth of what he saw and heard. And when he did realize it, he had to exert his utmost will-power to prevent himself from fainting. The person that Diane was imitating was—_himself_! The realization seemed to be bludgeoned into him, assisted by a round of ironic cheers. People were calling out: “_Brava! brava!_ Diane!” He heard Babette say: “Where is the little end-of-a-man?” And Diane’s voice reply: “Oh, he is coming back soon, I believe. I forget when.” A man’s voice—he believed it was the Marquis de Lavernal’s—exclaimed: “And when is our Diane going to marry it?” Diane, very emphatically: “Do not distress yourself, my dear; he’s lost all his money.”