The old strolling player listened to it all with deep interest.  Notwithstanding his compassion for that poor devil of a Risler, and for Sidonie herself, for that matter, who seemed to him, in theatrical parlance, “a beautiful culprit,” he could not help viewing the affair from a purely scenic standpoint, and finally cried out, carried away by his hobby: 

“What a first-class situation for a fifth act!”

She did not bear him.  Absorbed by some evil thought, which made her smile in anticipation, she stretched out to the fire her dainty shoes, saturated with snow, and her openwork stockings.

“Well, what do you propose to do now?” Delobelle asked after a pause.

“Stay here till daylight and get a little rest.  Then I will see.”

“I have no bed to offer you, my poor girl.  Mamma Delobelle has gone to bed.”

“Don’t you worry about me, my dear Delobelle.  I’ll sleep in that armchair.  I won’t be in your way, I tell you!”

The actor heaved a sigh.

“Ah! yes, that armchair.  It was our poor Zizi’s.  She sat up many a night in it, when work was pressing.  Ah, me! those who leave this world are much the happiest.”

He had always at hand such selfish, comforting maxims.  He had no sooner uttered that one than he discovered with dismay that his soup would soon be stone-cold.  Sidonie noticed his movement.

“Why, you were just eating your supper, weren’t you?  Pray go on.”

“‘Dame’! yes, what would you have?  It’s part of the trade, of the hard existence we fellows have.  For you see, my girl, I stand firm.  I haven’t given up.  I never will give up.”

What still remained of Desiree’s soul in that wretched household in which she had lived twenty years must have shuddered at that terrible declaration.  He never would give up!

“No matter what people may say,” continued Delobelle, “it’s the noblest profession in the world.  You are free; you depend upon nobody.  Devoted to the service of glory and the public!  Ah!  I know what I would do in your place.  As if you were born to live with all those bourgeois—­the devil!  What you need is the artistic life, the fever of success, the unexpected, intense emotion.”

As he spoke he took his seat, tucked his napkin in his neck, and helped himself to a great plateful of soup.

“To say nothing of the fact that your triumphs as a pretty woman would in no wise interfere with your triumph as an actress.  By the way, do you know, you must take a few lessons in elocution.  With your voice, your intelligence, your charms, you would have a magnificent prospect.”

Then he added abruptly, as if to initiate her into the joys of the dramatic art: 

“But it occurs to me that perhaps you have not supped!  Excitement makes one hungry; sit there, and take this soup.  I am sure that you haven’t eaten soup ‘au fromage’ for a long while.”

He turned the closet topsy-turvy to find her a spoon and a napkin; and she took her seat opposite him, assisting him and laughing a little at the difficulties attending her entertainment.  She was less pale already, and there was a pretty sparkle in her eyes, composed of the tears of a moment before and the present gayety.