He rose to his feet at once and bowed formally.

“At least,” he said, “such a matter is not to interrupt our friendship, Madame.”

“It is for you to say,” she answered, smiling faintly.  He laughed, pressed her hand, and bade her good-night, leaving her with more matter for thought than he could have suspected.

There was real cheering for her that night when she left the theatre.  Truda had been cheered before in many cities; but that night she took note of it, looking with attention at the thrusting crowd collected to applaud her.  It filled the square, restless as a sea under the tall lamps; rank upon rank of shadow-barred faces showed themselves, vociferous and unanimous—­a crowd in a good temper.  She bowed in acknowledgment of the shouts, but her face was grave, for she was taking account of what it meant to be alone amid an alien multitude, sharing none of its motives and emotions.  The fat coachman edged his horses through the men that blocked the way, till there was space to go ahead, and the cheers, steady and unflagging, followed her out of sight.

The baby was in bed when she arrived at her hotel; Truda paid a brief visit to its side, then ordered that her manager should be summoned, and sat down to write a note.  It was to the big young Jew, the baby’s uncle; she had a shrewd notion that Monsieur Vaucher would be able to lay hands on him.  The note was brief:  “I fear there will be more persecutions.  The Governor can do nothing.  When there is another attack on our people send to me.  Send to me without fail, for I have one resource left.”

“You can find the man?” she demanded of Vaucher.

The little hardened Frenchman was still under the spell of her acting.

“Madame,” he said grandly, “I can do anything you desire.  He shall have the note to-night.”

Poor Monsieur Vaucher, the charred remains of a man of sentiment, preserving yet a spark or two of the soft fire!  Could he have known the contents of that note and their significance, with what fervor of refusal he would have cast it back at her!  But he knew nothing, save that Truda’s acting restored to him sometimes for an hour or two the emotions of his youth, and he was very much her servant.  It was in the spirit of devotion and service that he called a droshky, and fared out to the crooked streets of the Jewish quarter to do his errand.  It was a fine soft night, with a clear sky of stars, and Monsieur Vaucher enjoyed the drive.  And as he went, jolting over the cobbles of the lesser streets, he suffered himself to recall the great scene of that night’s play—­a long slow situation of a woman at bay, opposing increasing odds with increasing spirit—­and experienced again his thrill.

“Ah,” he murmured over his cigar; “the Schottelius, she has the sense of climax!”

And so he duly delivered the note and returned to the hotel and bed, a man content with the conduct of his own world.