ls, was
accepted by Jean as authentic and vastly impressive. The effect
was startling, amazing. In an instant he beheld, with all the
miraculous clearness of a vision, there, standing between the
tables, the queen of tragedy he adored; he saw the locks braided
in antique fashion, the long gold pendants drooping from either
ear, the bare arms and the white face with scarlet lips. And
he cried aloud:

"I too love an actress."

He was drinking, never heeding what the liquor was; but lo! it
was a philtre he swallowed that revivified his passion. Then a
torrent of words rose flooding to his lips. The plays he had
seen, _Cinna, Bajazet_, the stern beauty of Emilie, the
sweet ferocity of Roxana, the sight of the actress cloaked in
velvet, her face shining so pale and clear in the darkness, his
longings, his hopes, his undying love, he recounted everything
with cries and tears.

Monsieur Tudesco heard him out, lapping up a glass of Chartreuse
drop by drop the while, and taking snuff from a screw of paper.
At times he would nod his head in approval and go on listening
with the air of a man watching and waiting his opportunity. When
he judged that at last, after tedious repetitions and numberless
fresh starts, the other's confidences were exhausted, he assumed
a look of gravity, and laying his fine hand with a gesture as
of priestly benediction on the young man's shoulder:

"Ah! my young friend," he said, "if I thought that what you feel
were true love... but I do not," and he shook his head and let
his hand drop.

Jean protested. To suffer so, and not to be really in love?

Monsieur Tudesco repeated:

"If I thought that this were true love... but I do not, so far."

Jean answered with great vehemence; he talked of death and plunging
a dagger in his heart.

Monsieur Tudesco reiterated for the third time:

"I do not believe it is true love."

Then Jean fell into a fury and began to rumple and tear at his
waistcoat as if he would bare his heart for inspection. Monsieur
Tudesco took his hands and addressed him soothingly:

"Well, well, my young friend, since it _is_ true love you feel,
I will help you. I am a great tactician, and if King Carlo Alberto
had read a certain memorial I sent him on military matters he
would have won the battle of Novara. He did not read my memorial,
and the battle was lost, but it was a glorious defeat. How happy
the sons of Italy who died for their mother in that thrice holy
battle! Th