“You know the proverb,” she replied.  “There is no good fete without a morrow.”

In the matter of repartees literary celebrities are often not as quick as women.  Raoul pretended dulness, a last resort for clever men.

“That proverb is true in my case,” he said, looking gallantly at the marquise.

“My dear friend, your speech comes too late; I can’t accept it,” she said, laughing.  “Don’t be so prudish!  Come, I know how it was; you complimented Madame de Vandenesse at the ball on her marabouts and she has put them on again for your sake.  She likes you, and you adore her; it may be a little rapid, but it is all very natural.  If I were mistaken you wouldn’t be twisting your gloves like a man who is furious at having to sit here with me instead of flying to the box of his idol.  She has obtained,” continued Madame d’Espard, glancing at his person impertinently, “certain sacrifices which you refused to make to society.  She ought to be delighted with her success,—­in fact, I have no doubt she is vain of it; I should be so in her place —­immensely.  She was never a woman of any mind, but she may now pass for one of genius.  I am sure you will describe her in one of those delightful novels you write.  And pray don’t forget Vandenesse; put him in to please me.  Really, his self-sufficiency is too much.  I can’t stand that Jupiter Olympian air of his,—­the only mythological character exempt, they say, from ill-luck.”

“Madame,” cried Raoul, “you rate my soul very low if you think me capable of trafficking with my feelings, my affections.  Rather than commit such literary baseness, I would do as they do in England,—­put a rope round a woman’s neck and sell her in the market.”

“But I know Marie; she would like you to do it.”

“She is incapable of liking it,” said Raoul, vehemently.

“Oh! then you do know her well?”

Nathan laughed; he, the maker of scenes, to be trapped into playing one himself!

“Comedy is no longer there,” he said, nodding at the stage; “it is here, in you.”

He took his opera-glass and looked about the theatre to recover countenance.

“You are not angry with me, I hope?” said the marquise, giving him a sidelong glance.  “I should have had your secret somehow.  Let us make peace.  Come and see me; I receive every Wednesday, and I am sure the dear countess will never miss an evening if I let her know you will be there.  So I shall be the gainer.  Sometimes she comes between four and five o’clock, and I’ll be kind and add you to the little set of favorites I admit at that hour.”

“Ah!” cried Raoul, “how the world judges; it calls you unkind.”

“So I am when I need to be,” she replied.  “We must defend ourselves.  But your countess I adore; you will be contented with her; she is charming.  Your name will be the first engraved upon her heart with that infantine joy that makes a lad cut the initials of his love on the barks of trees.”