“Yes, you are a little out of practice, but all you have to do is to rub off the rust.  Your voice is finer than ever—­just like velvet.”  And Madame Strahlberg pretended that she envied the fine mezzo-soprano, speaking disparagingly of her own little thread of a voice, which, however, she managed so skilfully.  “What a shame to take up your time teaching, with such a voice as that!” she cried; “you are out of your senses, my dear, you are raving mad.  It would be sinful to keep your gifts to yourself!  I am very sorry to discourage you, but you have none of the requisites for a teacher.  The stage would be best for you—­’Mon Dieu! why not?  You will see La Rochette this evening; she is a person who would give you good advice.  I wish she could hear you!”

“But my dear friend, I can not stay,” murmured Jacqueline, for those unexpected words “the stage, why not?” rang in her head, made her heart beat fast, and made lights dance before her eyes.  “They are expecting me to dine at home.”

“At your convent?  I beg your pardon, I’ll take care of that.  Don’t you know me?  My claws seldom let go of a prize, especially when that prize is worth the keeping.  A little telegram has already been sent, with your excuses.  The telegraph is good for that, if not for anything else:  it facilitates ’impromptus’.”

“Long live impromptus,” cried out Colette, “there is nothing like them for fun!” And while Jacqueline was trying to get away, not knowing exactly what she was saying, but frightened, pleased, and much excited, Colette went on:  “Oh!  I am so glad, so glad you came to-day; now you can see the pantomime!  I dreamed, wasn’t it odd, only last night, that you were acting it with us.  How can one help believing in presentiments?  Mine are always delightful—­and yours?”

“The pantomime?” repeated Jacqueline in bewilderment, “but I thought your sister told me you were all alone.”

“How could we have anything like company in August?” said Madame Strahlberg, interrupting her; “why, it would be impossible, there are not four cats in Paris.  No, no, we sha’n’t have anybody.  A few friends possibly may drop in—­people passing through Paris—­in their travelling-dresses.  Nothing that need alarm you.  The pantomime Colette talks about is only a pretext that they may hear Monsieur Szmera.”

And who was M. Szmera?

Jacqueline soon learned that he was a Hungarian, second half-cousin of a friend of Kossuth, the most wonderful violinist of the day, who had apparently superseded the famous Polish pianist in these ladies’ interest and esteem.  As for the latter, they had almost forgotten his name, he had behaved so badly.

“But,” said Jacqueline, anxiously, “you know I am obliged to be home by ten o’clock.”

“Ah! that’s like Cinderella,” laughed Wanda.  “Will the stroke of the clock change all the carriages in Paris into pumpkins?  One can get ‘fiacres’ at any hour.”