-in short, of the
whole staff. She advised Raoul to do justice to de Marsay when he died,
and she read with deep emotion the noble eulogy which Raoul published
upon the dead minister while blaming his Machiavelianism and his hatred
for the masses. She was present, of course, at the Gymnase on the
occasion of the first representation of the play upon the proceeds of
which Nathan relied to support his enterprise, and was completely duped
by the purchased applause.

"You did not bid farewell to the Italian opera," said Lady Dudley, to
whose house she went after the performance.

"No, I went to the Gymnase. They gave a first representation."

"I can't endure vaudevilles. I am like Louis XIV. about Teniers," said
Lady Dudley.

"For my part," said Madame d'Espard, "I think actors have greatly
improved. Vaudevilles in the present day are really charming comedies,
full of wit, requiring great talent; they amuse me very much."

"The actors are excellent, too," said Marie. "Those at the Gymnase
played very well to-night; the piece pleased them; the dialogue was
witty and keen."

"Like those of Beaumarchais," said Lady Dudley.

"Monsieur Nathan is not Moliere as yet, but--" said Madame d'Espard,
looking at the countess.

"He makes vaudevilles," said Madame Charles de Vandenesse.

"And unmakes ministries," added Madame de Manerville.

The countess was silent; she wanted to answer with a sharp repartee; her
heart was bounding with anger, but she could find nothing better to say
than,--

"He will make them, perhaps."

All the women looked at each other with mysterious significance. When
Marie de Vandenesse departed Moina de Saint-Heren exclaimed:--

"She adores him."

"And she makes no secret of it," said Madame d'Espard.

CHAPTER VII. SUICIDE

In the month of May Vandenesse took his wife, as usual, to their
country-seat, where she was consoled by the passionate letters she
received from Raoul, to whom she wrote every day.

Marie's absence might have saved Raoul from the gulf into which he was
falling, if Florine had been near him; but, unfortunately, he was alone
in the midst of friends who had become his enemies from the moment that
he showed his intention of ruling them. His staff of writers hated him
"pro tem.," ready to hold out a hand to him and console him in case of
a fall, ready to adore him in case of success. So goes the world of
literature. No one is really liked but an inferior. Every man's