People had been surprised that M. de Cymier should have asked for the part of the husband, a local magistrate, stiff and self-important, whom everybody laughed at.  Jacqueline alone knew why he had chosen it:  it would give him the opportunity of giving her two kisses.  Of course those kisses were to be reserved for the representation, but whether intentionally or otherwise, the young husband ventured upon them at every rehearsal, in spite of the general outcry—­not, however, very much in earnest, for it is well understood that in private theatricals certain liberties may be allowed, and M. de Cymier had never been remarkable for reserve when he acted at the clubs, where the female parts were taken by ladies from the smaller theatres.  In this school he had acquired some reputation as an amateur actor.  “Besides,” as he remarked on making his apology, “we shall do it very awkwardly upon the stage if we are not allowed to practise it beforehand.”  Jacqueline burst out laughing, and did not make much show of opposition.  To play the part of his wife, to hear him say to her, to respond with the affectionate and familiar ‘toi’, was so amusing!  It was droll to see her cut out her husband in chemistry, history, and grammar, and make him confound La Fontaine with Corneille.  She had such a little air while doing it!  And at the close, when he said to her:  “If I give you a pony to-morrow, and a good hearty kiss this very minute, shall you be willing to give up getting that degree?” she responded, with such gusto:  “Indeed, I shall!” and her manner was so eager, so boyish, so full of fun, that she was wildly applauded, while Gerard embraced her as heartily as he liked, to make up to himself for her having had, as his wife, the upper hand.

All this kissing threw him rather off his balance, and he might soon have sealed his fate, had not a very sad event occurred, which restored his self-possession.

The dress rehearsal was to take place one bright spring day at about four o’clock in the afternoon.  A large number of guests was assembled at the house of Madame d’Avrigny.  The performance had been much talked about beforehand in society.  The beauty, the singing, and the histrionic powers of the principal actress had been everywhere extolled.  Fully conscious of what was expected of her, and eager to do herself credit in every way, Jacqueline took advantage of Madame Strahlberg’s presence to run over a little song, which she was to—­sing between the acts and in which she could see no meaning whatever.  This little song, which, to most of the ladies present, seemed simply idiotic, made the men in the audience cry “Oh!” as if half-shocked, and then “Encore!  Encore!” in a sort of frenzy.  It was a so-called pastoral effusion, in which Colinette rhymed with herbette, and in which the false innocence of the eighteenth century was a cloak for much indelicate allusion.

“I never,” said Jacqueline in self-defense, before she began the song, “sang anything so stupid.  And that is saying much when one thinks of all the nonsensical words that people set to music!  It’s a marvel how any one can like this stuff.  Do tell me what there is in it?” she added, turning to Gerard, who was charmed by her ignorance.