“It is not a play,” observed my aunt, modestly drawing together her sea-weed draperies.  “How behind the age you are, to think that any one plays set-pieces nowadays.  It is not a piece, it is a ‘tableau vivant’, ‘The judgment of Paris.’  You know ‘The Judgment of Paris’?  I take the part of Venus—­I did not want to, but they all urged me—­give me a pin—­on the mantelpiece—­near the bag of bonbons—­there to the left, next to the jewel-case—­close by the bottle of gum standing on my prayer-book.  Can’t you see?  Ah! at last.  In short, the knife to my throat to compel me to play Venus.”

Turning to the screen on the right she said:  “Pass me the red for the lips, dear; mine are too pale.”  To the hairdresser, who is making his way to the door:  “Silvani, go to the gentlemen who are dressing in the billiard-room, and in the Baron’s dressing-room, they perhaps may need you.  Madame de S. and her daughters are in the boudoir—­ah! see whether Monsieur de V. has found his apple again—­he plays Paris,” added my aunt, turning toward me once more; “the apple must not be lost—­well, dear, and that red for the lips I asked you for?  Pass it to the Captain over the screen.”

“Here it is; but make haste, Captain, my cuirass cracks as soon as I raise my arm.”

I descried above the screen two slender fingers, one of which, covered with glittering rings, held in the air a little pot without a cover.

“What,—­is your cuirass cracking, Marchioness?”

“Oh! it will do, but make haste and take it, Captain.”

“You may think it strange, but I tremble like a leaf,” exclaimed my aunt.  “I am afraid of being ill.  Do you hear the gentlemen who are dressing in there in the Baron’s dressing room?  What a noise!  Ha! ha! ha! it is charming, a regular gang of strollers.  It is exhilarating, do you know, this feverish existence, this life in front of the footlights.  But, for the love of Heaven, shut the door, Marie, there is a frightful draught blowing on me.  This hourly struggle with the public, the hisses, the applause, would, with my impressionable nature, drive me mad, I am sure.”

The old affair of the kiss recurred to me and I said to myself, “Captain, you misunderstood the nature of your relative.”

“But that is not the question at all,” continued my aunt; “ten o’clock is striking.  Ernest, can you apply liquid white?  As you are rather experienced—­”

“Rather—­ha! ha! ha!” said some one behind the screen.

“On the whole,” continued the Baroness, “it would be very singular if, in the course of your campaigns, you had never seen liquid white applied.”

“Yes, aunt, I have some ideas; yes, I have some ideas about liquid white, and by summoning together all my recollections—­”

“Is it true, Captain, that it causes rheumatism?”

“No, not at all; have a couple of logs put on the fire and give me the stuff.”

So saying, I turned up my sleeves and poured some of the “Milk of Beauty” into a little onyx bowl that was at hand, then I dipped a little sponge into it, and approached my Aunt Venus with a smile.