The theatre was crowded.  In the first and second scenes the new actress justified her fame, and won outright the sympathy of the audience.  In the third scene she surpassed herself.  To Rocheville it was an artistic revelation.  Even the inveterate critics praised her, despite their creed that, outside the Comedie Francaise, one should not seek perfection.

The scene was the garden of an old chateau.  In the bright light the costumes of the players made a mass of rich colour.  Mademoiselle stood, prettily defiant.  A ripple of music burst from the orchestra, and died away in a stately movement.  With a merry laugh the revellers posed for the dance.  They bowed low in courtesy—­joined hands—­advanced—­retired.  Then Raoul’s violin alone continued the measure, as, one by one, the others drew away and left Mademoiselle alone.  It was the Bouvard water-colour, but living and moving.  Her lithe, slender body seemed light as air.  Every gesture, every pose, was full of a grave dignity.  In the dark theatre there was complete silence.  All eyes were centred on the supple, graceful form of the dancer.  Music, life, and colour were in harmony.  Gradually the full orchestra took up the strain again—­Mademoiselle, panting, flung herself into the ready arms of Augustin, and the stillness was broken by the thunder of applause.

* * * * *

After the curtain had fallen, and while the folk were yet streaming out, Jacques summoned Raoul to Mademoiselle’s room.  She met him with her hands outstretched.

“Chevalier, you played beautifully,” she said; “and I have never danced better.  You inspired me; you are my good angel.  Come to me to-morrow and take me to mass.”

Is she acting still? he thought.  He was not sure, but it was admirably done.  He felt her hands on his and he could only bow obedience and escape as speedily as possible.

Before he went to bed he took a candle and placed it so that he might see himself in the mirror.  He gazed long and steadily as at a picture of a stranger.  He saw a man with black hair, with a pale, earnest face, clean shaven, and with shoulders bent.  In the darkness, afterwards, when he remembered the face of Mademoiselle, as she came to him with her arms outstretched, he remembered also what the mirror had shown him.

* * * * *

Mademoiselle, in her room at the Hotel St. Amand, wrote to Paris: 

“He is a hunchback and I have appointed him chevalier.  Do not laugh, my dear Helene; you would not, if you could but see him.  His sad eyes would command your pity.  His face is pale and stern, but handsome, and he is kind and gentle.  They say that he dislikes women; from what I have seen of the women here I do not think he is altogether to blame.  He is to escort me to mass to-morrow.  The good people will think that I am mad.  So much the better.”

* * * * *