question, Henri," said she.

"What is it?"

"Do you still love me?"

"What reason have you to doubt it?"

"None that warrants me in reproaching you for anything. But so many
things separate us! Your career, to which you owe everything! Your
social standing, so different from mine! Oh, I know that you are
sincere, and that if you ever have a scruple regarding our liaison, you
will not be able to hide it from me. It is this possibility of which I
think."

"You are quite wrong, I assure you. Did I hide myself last night in
order to prove openly my admiration for you? Did I appear to disclaim
the allusions which you emphasized in seeming to address me in the
course of your role?"

"No, that is true. Shall I make a confession? When I am on the stage,
I fear nothing, because there the points of comparison are all in my
favor, since you can say to yourself: 'This woman on whom all eyes are
fixed, whose voice penetrates to the depths of the soul--this woman,
beautiful, applauded, courted, belongs to me--wholly to me,' and your
masculine vanity is pleasantly flattered. But later, Henri! When the
rouge is effaced from my lips, when the powder is removed from my
cheeks--perhaps revealing some premature line caused by study and
late hours--if, after that, you return to your own circle, and there
encounter some fresh young girl, graceful and blooming, the object, in
her turn, of the fickle admiration of the multitude, forgetful already
of her who just now charmed them--tell me, Henri! do you not, as do
the others, covet that beautiful exotic flower, and must not the poor
comedienne weep for her lost prestige?"

"It is Mademoiselle de Vermont, then, who inspires you with this
apprehension," said the General, smiling.

"Well, yes, it is she!"

"What childishness! Lenaieff will tell you that I have never even looked
at her."

"Last night, perhaps--but to-day?"

"We exchanged no more than a dozen words."

"But the more I think of her visit to the greenroom, the more
inexplicable it appears to me."

"You need not be surprised at that: she does nothing that any one else
does."

"These things are not done to displease you."

"I may agree as to that; but what conclusion do you draw?"

"That she is trying to turn your head."

"My head! You jest! I might be her father."

"That is not always a reason--"

Nevertheless, Henri's exclamation had been so frank that Eugenie felt
somewhat reassured.

"Are you going so so