ry words concerning
his _Pandolphe et Clarimonde_. But it did not enter Constantin Marc's
head to vouchsafe them.

Romilly shook his head.

"We must look forward to slatings. Monsieur Meunier knows it well. The
press has shown itself ferociously unjust to him."

"Alas," sighed Meunier, "they will never say as many hard things about
us as were said of Shakespeare and Moliere."

Nanteuil had a great success which was marked less by vociferous calls
before the curtain than by the deeper and more discreet approval of
discriminating playgoers. She had revealed qualities with which she had
not hitherto been credited; purity of diction, nobility of pose, and a
proud, modest grace.

On the stage, during the last interval, the Minister congratulated her
in person. This was a sign that the public was favourably disposed, for
Ministers never express individual opinions. Behind the Grand Master of
the University pressed a flattering crowd of public officials, society
folk, and dramatic authors. With arms extended toward her like
pump-handles they all simultaneously assured her of their admiration.
And Madame Doulce, stifled by their numbers, left on the buttons of the
men's garments shreds of her countless adornments of cotton lace.

The last act was Nanteuil's triumph. She obtained better things from the
public than tears and shouts. She won from all eyes that moist yet
tearless gaze, from every breast that deep yet almost silent murmur,
which beauty alone has power to compel.

She felt that she had grown immeasurably in a single instant, and when
the curtain fell she whispered:

"This time I've done it!"

She was unrobing herself in her dressing-room, which was filled with
baskets of orchids, bouquets of roses, and bunches of lilac, when a
telegram was brought to her. She tore it open. It was a message from The
Hague containing these words:

"My heartfelt congratulations on your undoubted success--Robert."

Just as she finished reading it Dr. Trublet entered the dressing-room.

She flung her arms, burning with joy and fatigue, round his neck; she
drew him to her warm moist bosom, and planted on his meditative
Silenus-like face a smacking kiss from her intoxicated lips.

Socrates, who was a wise man, took the kiss as a gift from the gods,
knowing full well that it was not intended for him, but was dedicated to
glory and to love.

Nanteuil realized herself that in her intoxication she had perhaps
charged her lips