Compardin, the clever manage of the Eden Reunis Theatre, as the theater critics invariably called him, was reckoning on a great success, and he had invested his last franc in the affair, without thinking of the morrow, or of the bad luck which had been pursuing him so inexorably for months past.  For a whole week, the walls, the kiosks, shopfronts, and even the trees, had been placarded with flaming posters, and from one end of Paris to the other carriages were to be seen which were covered with fancy sketches of Cheret, that represented two strong, well-built men who looked like ancient athletes.  The younger of them, who was standing with his arms folded, had the vacant smile of an itinerant mountebank on his face, and the other, who was dressed in what was supposed to be the costume of a Mexican trapper, held a revolver in his hand.  There were large type advertisements in all the papers, that the Montefiores would appear without fail at the Eden Reunis, the next Monday.

Nothing else was talked about, for the puff and humbug attracted people.  The Montefiores, like fashionable knicknacks, succeeded that whimsical jade, Rose Peche, who had gone off the preceding autumn, between the third and fourth acts of the burlesque, Ousca Iscar, in order to make a study of love in company of a young fellow of seventeen, who had just entered the university.  The novelty and difficulty of their performance, revived and agitated the curiosity of the public, for there seemed to be an implied threat of death, or, at any rate, of wounds and of blood in it, and it seemed as if they defied danger with absolute indifference.  And that always pleased women; it holds them and masters them, and they grow pale with emotion and cruel enjoyment.  Consequently, all the seats in the large theater were let almost immediately, and were soon taken for several days in advance.  And stout Compardin losing his glass of absinthe over a game of dominoes, was in high spirits, and saw the future through rosy glasses, and exclaimed in a loud voice:  “I think I have turned up trumps, by George!”

* * * * *

The Countess Regina de Villegby was lying on the sofa in her boudoir, languidly fanning herself.  She had only received three or four intimate friends that day, Saint Mars Montalvin, Tom Sheffield, and his cousin, Madame de Rhouel, a Creole, who laughed as incessantly as a bird sings.  It was growing dusk, and the distant rumbling of the carriages in the Avenue of the Champs-Elysees sounded like some somnolent rhythm.  There was a delicate perfume of flowers; the lamps had not been brought in yet, and chatting and laughing filled the room with a confused noise.

“Would you pour out the tea?” the Countess said, suddenly, touching Saint Mars’ fingers, who was beginning an amorous conversation in a low voice, with her fan.  And while he slowly filled the little china cup, he continued:  “Are the Montefiores as good as the lying newspapers make out?”