ate their movements, as if studying the figures of a dance.

"In the interests of the play, we shall have to make some cuts," said
Pradel to the dismayed author.

And Delage continued:

"'Do not blame me, Cecile: I felt for you a friendship dating from
childhood, one of those fraternal friendships which impart to the love
which springs from them a disquieting appearance of incest.'"

"Incest," shouted Pradel. "You cannot let the word 'incest' remain,
Monsieur Constantin Marc. The public has susceptibilities of which you
have no idea. Moreover, the order of the two speeches which follow must
be transposed. The optics of the stage require it."

The rehearsal was interrupted. Romilly caught sight of Durville who, in
a recess, was telling racy stories.

"Durville, you can go. The second act will not be rehearsed to-day."

Before leaving, the old actor went up to Nanteuil, to press her hand.
Judging that this was the moment to assure her of his sympathy, he
summoned up the tears to his eyes, as anyone condoling with her would
have done in his place. But he did it admirably. The pupils of his eyes
swam in their orbits, like the moon amid clouds. The corners of his lips
were turned down in two deep furrows which prolonged them to the bottom
of his chin. He appeared to be genuinely afflicted.

"My poor darling," he sighed, "I pity you, I do indeed! To see one for
whom one has experienced a--feeling--with whom one has--lived in
intimacy--to see him carried off at a blow--a tragic blow--is hard, is
terrible!"

And he extended his compassionate hands. Nanteuil, completely unnerved,
and crushing her tiny handkerchief and her part in her hands, turned her
back upon him, and hissed between her teeth:

"Old idiot!"

Fagette passed her arm round her waist, and led her gently aside to the
foot of Racine's statue, where she whispered into her ear:

"Listen to me, my dear. This affair must be completely hushed up.
Everybody is talking about it. If you let people talk, they will brand
you for life as Chevalier's widow."

Then, being something of a talker, she added:

"I know you, I am your best friend. I know your value. But beware,
Felicie: women are held at their own valuation."

Every one of Fagette's shafts told. Nanteuil, with fiery cheeks, held
back her tears. Too young to possess or even to desire the prudence
which comes to celebrated actresses when of an age to graduate as women
of the world of fashion, she was f