Then I bethought me of Theodore.  I realised that I could not carry this affair through successfully without his help.  So I gave him a further five francs—­as I said to him it was out of my own savings—­and I assured him that a certain M. Jean Duval had promised me a couple of hundred francs when the business which he had entrusted to me was satisfactorily concluded.  It was for this business—­so I explained—­that I required his help, and he seemed quite satisfied.

His task was, of course, a very easy one.  What a contrast to the risk I was about to run!  Twenty-five francs, my dear Sir, just for knocking at the door of Mlle. Mars’ dressing-room during the fourth act, whilst I was engaged in conversation with the attractive guardian of the iron safe, and to say in well-assumed, breathless tones: 

“Mademoiselle Mars has been taken suddenly unwell on the stage.  Will her maid go to her at once?”

It was some little distance from the dressing-room to the wings—­down a flight of ill-lighted stone stairs which demanded cautious ascent and descent.  Theodore had orders to obstruct the maid during her progress as much as he could without rousing her suspicions.

I reckoned that she would be fully three minutes going, questioning, finding out that the whole thing was a hoax, and running back to the dressing-room—­three minutes in which to open the chest, extract the bracelet and, incidentally, anything else of value there might be close to my hand.  Well, I had thought of that eventuality, too; one must think of everything, you know—­that is where genius comes in.  Then, if possible, relock the safe, so that the maid, on her return, would find everything apparently in order and would not, perhaps, raise the alarm until I was safely out of the theatre.

It could be done—­oh, yes, it could be done—­with a minute to spare!  And to-morrow at ten o’clock M. Jean Duval would appear, and I would not part with the bracelet until a thousand francs had passed from his pocket into mine.  I must get Theodore out of the house, by the way, before the arrival of M. Duval.

A thousand francs!  I had not seen a thousand francs all at once for years.  What a dinner I would have tomorrow!  There was a certain little restaurant in the Rue des Pipots where they concocted a cassolette of goose liver and pork chops with haricot beans which . . . !  I only tell you that.

How I got through the rest of that day I cannot tell you.  The evening found me—­quite an habitue now—­behind the stage of the Theatre Royal, nodding to one or two acquaintances, most of the people looking on me with grave respect and talking of me as the eccentric milor.  I was supposed to be pining for an introduction to the great tragedienne, who, very exclusive as usual, had so far given me the cold shoulder.