villon, the conductor, were present.
Pouvillon, astonishingly fat, was sitting on the table, idly swinging the
electric pendant over his head; while Morenita occupied Villedo's
armchair, and Villedo talked to Montferiot and another man in a corner.
But a crowd of officials of the theatre ventured on Diaz' heels. And then
came Monticelli, the _premiere danseuse_, in a coat and skirt, and then
some of her rivals. And as the terrible Director did not protest, the
room continued to fill until it was full to the doors, where stood a
semicircle of soiled, ragged scene-shifters and a few fat old women, who
were probably dressers. Who could protest on such a night? The democracy
of a concerted triumph reigned. Everybody was joyous, madly happy.
Everybody had done something; everybody shared the prestige, and the rank
and file might safely take generals by the hand.

Diaz was then the centre of attraction. It was recognised that he had
entered that sphere from a wider one, bringing with him a radiance
brighter than he found there. He was divine last night. All felt that he
was divine. He spoke to everyone with an admirable modesty, gaily, his
eyes laughing. Several women kissed him, including Morenita. Not that I
minded. In the theatre the code is different, coarser, more banal. He
alone raised this crowd above its usual level and gave it distinction.

Someone suggested that, as the piano was there, he should play, and
the demand ran from mouth to mouth. Villedo, appreciating its
audacity, made a gesture to indicate that such a thing could not be
asked. But Diaz instantly said that, if it would give pleasure, he
would play with pleasure.

And he sat down to the piano, and looked round, smiling, and the room was
hushed in a moment, and each face was turned towards him.

'What?' he ejaculated. And then, as no definite recommendation was
offered, he said: 'Do you wish that I improvise?'

The idea was accepted with passionate, noisy enthusiasm.

A cold perspiration broke out over my whole body. I must have turned
very pale.

'You are not ill, madame?' asked that ridiculous fop, Montferiot, who
had been presented to me, and was whispering the most fatuous
compliments.

'No, I thank you.'

The fact was that Diaz, since his retirement, had not yet played to
anyone except myself. This was his first appearance. I was afraid for
him. I trembled for him. I need not have done. He was absolutely master
of his powers. His fingers a