gazing at Félicie, a small remote figure on the stage. And remembering the days when he

him to know that he was no longer loved; jealousy tortured him still more. It was true that in the first beautiful hours of his love he had known that Félicie had a lover, one Girmandel, a court bailiff, who lived in the Rue de Provence, and he had felt it deeply. But as he never saw him he had formed so confused and ill-defined an idea of him that his jealousy lost itself in uncertainty. Félicie assured him that she had never been more than passive in her intercourse with Girmandel, that she had not even pretended to care for him. He believed her, and this belief gave him the keenest satisfaction. She also told him that for a long time past, for months, Girmandel had been nothing more than a friend, and he believ

bers of the orchestra, murmuring inaudibly, clapped their hands slowly

ightful, dear little woma

r was disloyal. Lifting a fing

his hand upon his heart, he added:

ed Madame Doulce, who read into these

s that one wished to represent. She was fond of referring to herself as an example of this. When appearing as a tragedy queen, after draining a goblet of poison on the stage, her bowels had been on fire all night. Nevertheless

e a dee

n born into a bad period. There is no longer a public nowadays; no c

r shook

jade, and a woman who is selfish can get anything she likes. But for people with hearts there's nothing left but to hang a stone roun

ie's dressing-room for fear of meeting Ligny there, the sight of whom was insupportable, a

urned up the Rue de Médicis. Coachmen were dozing on their boxes, while waiting for the end of the performance, and high over the tops of the plane-trees the moon was ra