he trusted would let her act many times more. I suppose I appeared
like a lump of clay, because I was so overcome with remorse at Count
Saxe's action in going off with Madame de Bouillon, that I could not
say a word.

"It will be in Phedre--a part worthy of the greatest artist in the
world. It has sometimes been said I knew how to play that part. If
ever I could play it, I shall show this when I play it--the next and
the last time. Monsieur Voltaire, I charge you to go this night to the
director of the Theatre Francais and say to him that I shall be ready
to play Phedre four days from now, as announced."

"I promise with all my heart," cried Monsieur Voltaire, "and talk not
of its being the last time--oh, Adrienne!" He stopped, choked by his
emotion, and not a word was spoken for a time.

"Mademoiselle," said I, seeing my betters keep silence, "those who
have once seen you in that part can never forget you. Often, in those
dreary days in Courland, in anxious nights upon the island in Lake
Uzmaiz, my master, Count Saxe, would recall the noble beauty of those
lines as you spoke them--and many other of those plays in which you
had bewitched the world."

Poor soul! I knew what would give her a moment's ease.

"Did he then, remember me?" she said in a soft voice, like music.
Monsieur Voltaire spoke not a word; he loved her too well to grudge
her these few crumbs of comfort.

Seeing she was interested, I began to tell her some of the incidents
of our flight from Uzmaiz. I told her of our sojourn at the chateau of
Capello. She remembered Francezka well; and the mention of these
things turned the sad current of her thoughts.

"What a charming, gifted creature she was," said Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur, "and how amusing it was, Voltaire, for you, the author,
and me, the artist, to see our greatness as we thought it, so
burlesqued that night in the little out-of-doors theater! However,
that quick transposition showed the child had vast power and
originality. And Jacques Haret--what has become of the creature?"

I replied, with truth, that I neither knew nor cared, not wishing to
wring Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's tender heart with the story of Jacques
Haret's latest villainy.

We remained an hour. Several times I would have left, but Monsieur
Voltaire detained me by a glance. At last, when Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur was inclined to sleep, we departed. Once outside the door,
and under the shadow of the tall old houses, Monsieur V