"Do you know her?"
"She is there!"
"What?"
"In the next room. She just called on business."
"Mon Dieu! That's queer!"
"It's lucky. It was the first time I had ever met her."
"What's she like?"
"Have you never seen her? You shall do so in a minute. She came to beg
me to advance her professionally, she wants my help. This ought to save
you some money, my friend. We'll have her in! I shall tell her who you
are."
"How shall I talk to her?"
"Leave it to me."
I crossed the landing, and opened the salon door. The room was littered
with the illustrated journals, but she was not diverting herself with
any of them--she was sitting before a copy of _La Joconde_,
striving to reproduce on her own face the enigma of the smile: I had
discovered an actress who never missed an opportunity.
"Please come here."
She followed me back, and my friend stood scowling at her.
"This gentleman is General de Lavardens," I said.
She bowed--slightly, perfectly. That bow acknowledged de Lavardens'
presence, and rebuked the manner of my introduction, with all the
dignity of the patricians whom she had studied in the rain.
"Mademoiselle, when my servant announced that the General was
downstairs you heard the name. You did not tell me that you knew his
son."
"Dame, non, monsieur!" she murmured.
"And when you implored me to assist you, you did not tell me that you
aspired to a marriage that would compel you to leave the stage. I never
waste my influence. Good-morning!"
"I do not aspire to the marriage," she faltered, pale as death.
"Rubbish, I know all about it. Of course, it is your aim to marry him
sooner or later, and of course he will make it a condition that you
cease to act. Well, I have no time to help a woman who is playing the
fool! That's all about it. I needn't detain you."
"I have refused to marry him," she gasped. "On my honour! You can ask
him. It is a fact."
"But you see him still," broke in de Lavardens wrathfully; "he is with
you every day! That is a fact, too, isn't it? If your refusal is
sincere, why are you not consistent? why do you want him at your side?"
"Because, monsieur," she answered, "I am weak enough to miss him when
he goes."
"Ah! you admit it. You profess to be in love with him?"
"No, monsieur," she dissented thoughtfully, "I am not in love with him
--and my refusal has been quite sincere, incredible as it may seem that
a woman like myself rejects a man like him. I could never make a
marriage that would mean death to my ambition. I could not sacrifice my
art--the stage is too dear to me for that. So it is evident that I am
not in love with him, for when a woman loves, the man is dearer to her
than all else."
De Lavardens grunted. I knew his grunts: there was some apology in this
one.
"The position is not fair to my son," he demurred. "You show good sense
in what you say--you are an artist, you are quite right to devote
yourself to your career; but you reject and encourage him at the same
time. If he married you it would be disastrous--to you, and to him; you
would ruin his life, and spoil your own. Enfin, give him a chance to
forget you! Send him away. What do you want to keep seeing him for?"