“I knew her in 1842,” Theroulde went on, “at Nantes, where she created fourteen roles in six weeks.  And folks imagine actresses have nothing to do!  A fine thing, the stage!  But the mischief is, there’s not a single architect capable of building a playhouse with any sense.  As to scenery, it is simply puerile, even at the Opera—­so childish it might make a South Sea Islander blush.  I have thought out a system of rollers in the flies so as to get rid of those long top-cloths that represent the sky without a pretence at deceiving anyone.  I have likewise invented an arrangement of lamps and reflectors so placed as to light the characters on the stage from above downwards, as the sun does, which is the rational way, and not from below upwards, as the footlights do, which is absurd.”

“Of course it is,” agreed Servien.  “But you were speaking of Gabrielle T——­’s mother.”

“She was a fine woman,” replied the architect; “tall, dark, with a little moustache that became her to perfection....  You see the effect of my roller contrivance—­a vast sky shedding an equal illumination over the actors and giving every object its natural shadows. La Muette is being played, we will say; the famous cavatina, the slumber-song, is heard beneath a transparent sky, vaulted like the real thing and giving the impression of boundless space.  The effect of the music is doubled!  Fenella wakes, crosses the boards with cadenced tread; her shadow, which follows her on the floor, is cadenced like her steps; it is nature and art both together.  That is my invention!  As for putting it in execution, why, the means are childishly simple.”

Thereupon he entered upon endless explanations, using technical terms and illustrating his meaning with everything he could lay hands on—­glasses, saucers, matches.  His frayed sleeves, as they swept to and fro, wiped the marble top of the table and set the glasses rattling.  Disturbed by the noise, the Marquis Tudesco, who was asleep, half opened his eyes mechanically.

Servien kept nodding his approval and repeating that he quite understood, to stop the old man’s babble.  Then he advised the architect to try and put his invention in practice; but he only shrugged his shoulders—­it was years since he had left off trying anything.  After all, what did it matter to him whether his system was applied or no?  He was an inventor!

Recalled for the third time by his young listener to Gabrielle T——­’s mother: 

“She never had any great success on the stage,” he declared; “but she was a careful woman and saved money.  She was near on fifty when I came upon her again in Paris living with Adolphe, a very handsome young fellow of twenty-five or twenty-six, nephew of a stockbroker.  It was the most loving couple, the merriest, happiest household in the world.  Never once did I breakfast at their little flat, fifth floor of a house in the Rue Taitbout, without being melted to tears.  ‘Eat, my kitten,’ ‘Drink, my lamb!’ and such looks and endearments, and each so pleased with the other!  One day he said to her:  ’My kitten, your money does not bring you in what it ought; give me your scrip and in forty-eight hours I shall have doubled your capital.’  She went softly to her cupboard and opening the glass doors, handed him her securities one by one with hands that trembled a little.