How can I write the fourth Act with this ridiculous thing posed among
my papers? What thing? It is a doll in a pink silk dress--an elaborate
doll that walks, and talks, and warbles snatches from the operas. A
terrible lot it cost! Why does an old dramatist keep a doll on his
study table? I do not keep it there. It came in a box from the
Boulevard an hour ago, and I took it from its wrappings to admire its
accomplishments again--and ever since it has been reminding me that
women are strange beings.
Yes, women are strange, and this toy sets me thinking of one woman in
particular: that woman who sued, supplicated for my help, and then,
when she had all my interest--Confound the doll; here is the incident,
just as it happened!
It happened when all Paris flocked to see my plays and "Paul de
Varenne" was a name to conjure with. Fashions change. To-day I am a
little out of the running, perhaps; younger men have shot forward. In
those days I was still supreme, I was master of the Stage.
Listen! It was a spring morning, and I was lolling at my study window,
scenting the lilac in the air. Maximin, my secretary, came in and said:
"Mademoiselle Jeanne Laurent asks if she can see you, monsieur."
"Who is mademoiselle Jeanne Laurent?" I inquired.
"She is an actress begging for an engagement, monsieur."
"I regret that I am exceedingly busy. Tell her to write."
"The lady has already written a thousand times," he mentioned, going.
"'Jeanne Laurent' has been one of the most constant contributors to our
waste-paper basket."
"Then tell her that I regret I can do nothing for her. Mon Dieu! is it
imagined that I have no other occupation than to interview nonentities?
By the way, how is it you have bothered me about her, why this unusual
embassy? I suppose she is pretty, hein?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And young?"
"Yes, monsieur."
I wavered. Let us say my sympathy was stirred. But perhaps the lilac
was responsible--lilac and a pretty girl seem to me a natural
combination, like coffee and a cigarette. "Send her in!" I said.