HOWEVER (Armand went on after a pause), though I realized full well that I was still in love, I felt stronger than I had before and, in my desire to be with Marguerite again, there was also a determination to make her see that I now had the upper hand.

Many are the paths the heart will tread, and many the excuses its finds, that it may reach what it desires!

I could not therefore remain in the corridors any longer, and went back to my seat in the pit, quickly glancing around the auditorium as I did so to see in which box she was sitting.

She was in the stage-box in the stalls, and quite alone. She looked much altered, as I have told you, and I could not detect on her lips her old unconcerned smile. She had been ill; she still was.

Although it was already April, she was still dressed for winter and wore velvet.

I looked at her so insistently that my eye caught hers.

She considered me for a moment or two, reached for her opera-glasses to get a better look, and clearly thought she recognized me, though without being able to say positively who I was. For when she lowered her opera- glasses, a smile ?that captivating greeting of women ? strayed across her lips in reply to the acknowledgement the seemed to expect from me. But I made no response, as a way of asserting an advantage over her and of appearing to have forgotten while she remembered.

Believing that she was mistaken, she turned her head away.

The curtain went up.

I have seen Marguerite many times in the theatre. I never once saw her pay the slightest attention to what was happening on stage.

For me too, the play was of very little interest, and I had eyes only for her while doing my utmost to ensure that she did not notice.

It was thus that I observed her exchanging looks with the person who occupied the box opposite hers; I raised my eyes to this other box, and in it recognized a woman with whom I was reasonably familiar.

She had once been a kept woman, had tried the stage, had not succeeded and, counting on her contacts among the fashionable women of Paris, had gone into business and opened a milliner's shop.

In her, I saw a way of contriving a meeting with Marguerite, and I took advantage of a moment when she was looking in my direction to wish her a pleasant evening with hands and eyes.

What I had foreseen happened: she summoned me to her box.

Prudence Duvernoy ?such was the apt name of the milliner ?was one of those ample women of forty with whom no great diplomatic subtleties are required to get them to say what you wish to know, especially when what you wish to know is as simple as what I had to ask.

Seizing a moment when she was inaugurating a new round of signals with Marguerite, I asked her:

'Who's that you're watching?'

'Marguerite Gautier.'

'Do you know her?'

'Yes, I'm her milliner, and she's a neighbour of mine.'

'So you live in the rue d'Antin.'

'In number 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of mine.'

'They say she's a charming girl.'

'Don't you know her?'

'No, but I'd very much like to.'

'Do you want me to tell her to come across to our box?'

'No, I'd prefer you to introduce me to her.'

'At her place?'

'Yes.'

'That's more difficult.'

'Why?'

'Because she's under the protection of an old Duke who is very jealous.'

' "Protection", how charming.'

'Yes, protection, ' Prudence went on. 'Poor old thing. He'd be hard put to it to be her lover.'

Prudence then related how Marguerite had become acquainted with the Duke at Bagneres.

'And that is why, ' I continued, 'she's here on her own?'

'That's right.'

'But who'll drive her home?'

'He will.'

'So he'll come and fetch her?'

'Any minute now.'

'And who's taking you home?'

'Nobody.'

'Allow me.'

'But you're with a friend, I believe.'

'Allow us, then.'

'What's this friend of yours?'

'He's a charming fellow, very witty. He'll be delighted to meet you.'

'Very well, then, it's agreed, all four of us will leave after this play is finished, for I've seen the last one before.'

'Splendid. I'll go and tell my friend.'

'Off you go.'

I was on the point of leaving when Prudence said: 'Ah! there's the Duke just coming into Marguerite's box.'

I looked.

And indeed, a man of seventy had just sat down behind the young woman and was giving her a bag of sweets which, with a smile, she began to eat at once, and then she pushed them across the front ledge of her box with a sign to Prudence which could be translated as:

'Do you want some?'

'No, ' was Prudence's reply.

Marguerite retrieved the bag and, turning round, began chatting to the Duke.

So exact an account of all these detailed happenings must seem very childish, but anything connected with that girl is so present in my recollection that I cannot help but remember it all now.

I went down to let Gaston know what I had just arranged for him and me.

He was game.

We left our seats in the stalls and made for Madame Duvernoy's box.

We had barely opened the door leading out of the orchestra stalls when we were forced to stop and make way for Marguerite and the Duke who were leaving.

I would have given ten years of my life to have been in that old man's shoes.

When he reached the boulevard, he handed her up into a phaeton, which he drove himself, and they disappeared, borne away at a trot by two superb horses.

We entered Prudence's box.

When the play was over, we went down and got an ordinary cab which took us to 7 rue d'Antin. When we reached her door, Prudence invited us up to view her business premises, which we had never seen before, and of which she seemed very proud. You can imagine how eagerly I
accepted.

I fel............