But anyone possessed of a little tact refused to take offense, but went calmly on and ended by intrusting his manuscript to the hands of Don Jeronimo.  And he could rest assured that his drama would be produced.  The veteran of the greenrooms exercised a strong influence, akin to intimidation, over managers and actors alike; when he was displeased, he gave his tongue free rein; if a play had been hissed, he would protest, boiling with rage, against the public verdict, and would continue to support the author more stanchly than ever.  If on the contrary it scored a hit, he merely kept silent and smiled ecstatically, but never sought out the successful author in order to congratulate him.  And if the latter should complain of his indifference, his answer was: 

“Now that you have shown that you can use your wings, will you please, my friend, will you please leave me free to succor some other poor fellow?”

His private life offered little of special interest.  Every night, upon leaving the theater, he betook himself to the Cafe Habanero, where he habitually consumed a beefsteak, together with a small measure of beer.  And, according to a certain friend, who had watched him repeatedly, he always managed his repast so artfully as to finish, at one and the same time, the last mouthful of meat, the last fragment of bread, and the last draught of beer.

On this particular night the little gathering was unwontedly animated.  The actress’s friends indulged more freely than usual in gossip and laughter.  Don Jeronimo, muffled closely in his cape (one of his privileges), lounging at ease in the big corner chair, and with his inevitable cigar between his teeth (another special privilege), was giving utterance to rare and racy stories, which from time to time caused his hearers to cast a glance in the direction of Clotilde and brought a slightly heightened color to the latter’s cheeks.

Don Jeronimo himself took no notice of this; he had first known her as such a mere child that he considered he had the right to dispense with certain courtesies that are due to ladies,—­assuming that in the whole course of his life he had ever shown them to any woman, which is very doubtful.  He had met her first as a mere child and had opened the way for her to the stage.  At the time that he ran across her, she was living wretchedly and trying to learn the art of making artificial flowers.  Today, thanks to her talent, she earned enough to keep her mother and sisters in comfort.

Clotilde’s attraction lay in her charm of manner rather than her beauty.  Her complexion was olive, her eyes large and black, the best of all her features; her mouth somewhat big, but with bright red lips and admirably even teeth.  Tonight she was costumed as a lady of the time of Louis XV, with powdered hair, which was marvelously becoming to her.  She took almost no part in the conversation, but seemed satisfied to be merely a listener, constantly turning her serene gaze from one speaker to another, and often answering only with a smile when they addressed her.