An abominably low, deceitful creature, that Theodore, you will see anon.  But I won’t anticipate.

2.

The next performance of Le Reve was announced for the following evening, and I started on my campaign.  As you may imagine, it did not prove an easy matter.  To obtain access through the stage-door to the back of the theatre was one thing—­a franc to the doorkeeper had done the trick—­to mingle with the scene-shifters, to talk with the supers, to take off my hat with every form of deep respect to the principals had been equally simple.

I had even succeeded in placing a bouquet on the dressing-table of the great tragedienne on my second visit to the theatre.  Her dressing-room door had been left ajar during that memorable fourth act which was to see the consummation of my labours.  I had the bouquet in my hand, having brought it expressly for that purpose.  I pushed open the door, and found myself face to face with a young though somewhat forbidding damsel, who peremptorily demanded what my business might be.

In order to minimise the risk of subsequent trouble, I had assumed the disguise of a middle-aged Angliche—­red side-whiskers, florid complexion, a ginger-coloured wig plastered rigidly over the ears towards the temples, high stock collar, nankeen pantaloons, a patch over one eye and an eyeglass fixed in the other.  My own sainted mother would never have known me.

With becoming diffidence I explained in broken French that my deep though respectful admiration of Mlle. Mars had prompted me to lay a floral tribute at her feet.  I desired nothing more.

The damsel eyed me coldly, though at the moment I was looking quite my best, diffident yet courteous, a perfect gentleman of the old regime.  Then she took the bouquet from me and put it down on the dressing-table.

I fancied that she smiled, not unkindly, and I ventured to pass the time of day.  She replied not altogether disapprovingly.  She sat down by the dressing-table and took up some needlework which she had obviously thrown aside on my arrival.  Close by, on the floor, was a solid iron chest with huge ornamental hinges and a large escutcheon over the lock.  It stood about a foot high and perhaps a couple of feet long.

There was nothing else in the room that suggested a receptacle for jewellery; this, therefore, was obviously the safe which contained the bracelet.  At the self-same second my eyes alighted on a large and clumsy-looking key which lay upon the dressing-table, and my hand at once wandered instinctively to the pocket of my coat and closed convulsively on the duplicate one which the soi-disant Jean Duval had given me.

I talked eloquently for a while.  The damsel answered in monosyllables, but she sat unmoved at needlework, and after ten minutes or so I was forced to beat a retreat.

I returned to the charge at the next performance of Le Reve, this time with a box of bonbons for the maid instead of the bouquet for the mistress.  The damsel was quite amenable to a little conversation, quite willing that I should dally in her company.  She munched the bonbons and coquetted a little with me.  But she went on stolidly with her needlework, and I could see that nothing would move her out of that room, where she had obviously been left in charge.