“It is very full already, M. Valgrand,” said Charlot deprecatingly.
“We must not keep you long,” the Baronne de Vibray murmured. “You must be very tired.”
Valgrand passed a weary hand across his brow.
“Positively exhausted!” Then he raised his head and looked at the company. “What did you think of me?”
A chorus of eulogy sprang from every lip.
“Splendid!” “Wonderful!” “The very perfection of art!”
“No, but really?” protested Valgrand, swelling with satisfied vanity. “Tell me candidly: was it really good?”
“You really were wonderful: could not have been better,” the Baronne de Vibray exclaimed enthusiastically, and the crowd of worshippers endorsed every word, until the artist was convinced that their praise was quite sincere.
“How I have worked!” he exclaimed: “do you know, when rehearsals began—ask Charlot if this isn’t true—the piece simply didn’t exist!”
“Simply didn’t exist!” Charlot corroborated him, like an echo.
“Didn’t exist,” Valgrand repeated: “not even my part. It was insignificant, flat! So I took the author aside and I said: ‘Frantz, my boy, I’ll tell you what you must do: you know the lawyer’s speech? Absurd! What am I to do while he is delivering it? I’ll make the speech for my own defence, and I’ll get something out of it!’ And the prison scene! Just fancy, he had shoved a parson into that! I said to Frantz: ‘Cut the parson out, my boy: what the dickens am I to do while he is preaching? Simply nothing at all: it’s absurd. Give his speech to me! I’ll preach to myself!’ And there you are: I don’t want to boast, but really I did it all! And it was a success, eh?”
Again the chorus broke out, to be stopped by Valgrand, who was contemplating his reflection in a mirror.
“And my makeup, Colonel? Do you know the story of my makeup? I hear they were talking about it all over the house. Am I like Gurn? What do you think? You saw him quite close at the trial, Comte: what do you think?”
“The resemblance is perfectly amazing,” said the Comte de Baral with perfect truth.
The actor stroked his face mechanically: a new idea struck him.
“My beard is a real one,” he exclaimed. “I let it grow on purpose. I hardly had to make myself up at all; I am the same build, the same type, same profile; it was ridiculously easy!”
“Give me a lock of hair from your beard for a locket,” said the Baronne de Vibray impudently.
Valgrand looked at her, and heaved a profound sigh.
“Not yet, not yet, dear lady: I am infinitely sorry, but not yet: a little later on, perhaps; wait for the hundredth performance.”
“I must have one too,” said Simone Holbord, and Valgrand with great dignity replied:
“I will put your name down for one, madame!”
But the Comte de Baral had looked furtively at his watch, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“My good people, it is most horribly late! And our great artiste must be overcome with sleep!”
Forthwith they all prepared to depart, in spite of the actor’s courteous protests that he could not hear of letting them go so soon. They lingered at the door for a few minutes in eager, animated conversation, shaking hands and exchanging farewells and thanks and congratulations. Then the sound of their footsteps died away along the corridors, and the Baronne de Vibray and her friends left the theatre. Valgrand turned back into his dressing-room and locked the door, then dropped into the low and comfortable chair that was set before his dressing-table.
He remained there resting for a few minutes, and then sat up and threw a whimsical glance at his dresser who was putting out his ordinary clothes.
“Hang it all, Charlot! What’s exhaustion? The mere sight of such jewels as those enchanting women would wake one from the dead!”
Charlot shrugged his shoulders.
“Will you never be serious, M. Valgrand?”
“Heavens, I hope not!” exclaimed the actor. “I hope not, for if there is one thing of which one never tires here below, it is Woman, the peerless rainbow that illuminates this vale of tears!”
“You are very poetical tonight,” the dresser remarked.
“I am a lover—in love with love! Oh, Love, Love! And in my time, you know—” He made a sweeping, comprehensive gesture, and came back abruptly to mundane affairs. “Come, help me to dress.”
Charlot offered him a bundle of letters, which Valgrand took with careless hand. He looked at the envelopes one after another, hugely amused.
“Violet ink, and monograms, and coronets, and—perfume. Say, Charlot, is this a proposal? What do you bet?”
“You never have anything else,” the dresser grumbled “—except bills.”
“Do you bet?”
“If you insist, I bet it is a bill; then you will win,” said Charlot.
“Done!” cried Valgrand. “Listen,” and he began to declaim the letter aloud: “ ‘Oh, wondrous genius, a flower but now unclosing’⸺ Got it, Charlot? Another of them!” He tore open another envelope. “Ah-ha! Photograph enclosed, and will I send it back if the original is not to my fancy!” He flung himself back in his chair to laugh. “Where is my collar?” He picked up a third envelope. “What will you bet that this violet envelope does not contain another tribute to my fatal beauty?”
“I bet it is another bill,” said the dresser; “but you are sure to win.”
“I have,” Valgrand replied, and again declaimed the written words: “ ‘if you promise to be discreet, and true, you shall never regret it.’ Does one ever regret it—even if one does not keep one’s promises?”
“At lovers’ perjuries—” Charlot quoted.
“Drunken promises!” Valgrand retorted. “By the way, I am dying for a drink. Give me a whisky and soda.” He got up and moved to the table on which Charlot had set decanters
