“I cannot invite you to my house,” said she, “for certain sufficient reasons; but if you will stay here some time we shall be able to see each other.  But I entreat you not to shew me any marked attention in public, for there are those who will spy upon our actions, and it is not pleasant to be talked about.”

I was quite satisfied with this, and told her that I would do all in my power to please her, and that the most prying eyes should have nothing to fix on.  I felt that the pleasure I looked forward to would be rendered all the sweeter by a tincture of mystery.

I had proclaimed myself as a novice in the mimic art, and had entreated my lame friend to be kind enough to instruct me.  I therefore went to her in the morning, but she could only flatter herself that hers was a reflected light, as I had opportunities for paying my court to my charmer in her house, and however great her vanity may have been, she must have had some suspicions of the truth.

This woman was a widow, aged between thirty and forty years, of a jaundiced complexion, and a piercing and malicious aspect.  In her efforts to hide the inequality of her legs, she walked with a stiff and awkward air; and, wishing to be thought a wit, she increased her natural dullness by a ceaseless flow of small talk.  I persisted in behaving towards her with a great air of respect, and one day she said that, having seen me in the disguise of a waiter, she would not have thought I was a man of a timid nature.

“In what respect do you think me timid?” said I; to which she gave me no answer, but I knew perfectly well what she meant.  I was tired of my part, and I had determined to play it no more when we had acted L’Ecossaise.

All the best people at Soleure were present at our first performance.  The lame lady was delighted with the horror inspired by her acting; but she might credit a great deal of it to her appearance.  M. de Chavigni drew forth the tears of the audience, his acting was said to be better than the great Voltaire’s.  As for me, I remember how near I was to fainting when, in the third scene of the fifth act, Lindane said to me,

“What!  You!  You dare to love me?”

She pronounced these words with such fiery scorn that all the spectators applauded vehemently.  I was almost put out of countenance, for I thought I detected in her voice an insult to my honour.  However, I collected myself in the minute’s respite which the loud applause gave me, and I replied,—–­

“Yes; I adore you!  How should I not?”

So pathetically and tenderly did I pronounce these words that the hall rang again with the applause, and the encores from four hundred throats made me repeat the words which, indeed, came from my heart.

In spite of the pleasure we had given to the audience, we judged ourselves not perfect in our parts, and M. de Chavigni advised us to put off our second performance for a couple of days.