the author, "the grey stones and
the slate roofs of the Abbaye-aux-Dames."

"Quite so. Pray be seated, Madame Doulce; you have my attention."

"I was most courteously received at the Archbishop's Palace," said
Madame Doulce.

"Monsieur Pradel, it is imperative that the walls of the Abbaye should
appear inscrutable, of great thickness, and yet subtilized by the mists
of coming night. A pale-gold sky----"

"Monsieur l'Abbe Mirabelle," resumed Madame Doulce, "is a priest of the
highest distinction----"

"Monsieur Marc, are you particularly keen on your pale-gold sky?"
inquired the stage manager. "Go on, Madame Doulce, go on, I am listening
to you."

"And exquisitely polite. He made a delicate allusion to the
indiscretions of the newspapers----"

At this moment Monsieur Marchegeay, the stage manager, burst into the
room. His green eyes were glittering, and his red moustache was dancing
like a flame. The words rolled off his tongue:

"They are at it again! Lydie, the little super, is screaming like a
stoat on the stairs. She says Delage tried to violate her. It's at least
the tenth time in a month that she has come out with that story. This
is an infernal nuisance!"

"Such conduct cannot be tolerated in a house like this," said Pradel.
"You'll have to fine Delage. Pray continue, Madame Doulce."

"Monsieur l'Abbe Mirabelle explained to me in the clearest manner that
suicide is an act of despair."

But Constantin Marc was inquiring of Pradel with interest, whether
Lydie, the little super, was pretty.

"You have seen her in _La Nuit du 23 octobre_; she plays the woman of
the people who, in the Plaine de Grenelle, is buying wafers of Madame
Ravaud."

"A very pretty girl, to my thinking," said Constantin Marc.

"Undoubtedly," responded Pradel. "But she would be still prettier if her
ankles weren't like stakes."

And Constantin Marc musingly replied.

"And Delage has outraged her. That fellow possesses the sense of love.
Love is a simple and primitive act. It's a struggle, it's hatred.
Violence is necessary to it. Love by mutual consent is merely a tedious
obligation."

And he cried, greatly excited.

"Delage is prodigious!"

"Don't get yourself into a fix," said Pradel.

"This same little Lydie entices my actors into her dressing-room, and
then all of a sudden she screams out that she is being outraged in order
to get hush-money out of them. It's her lover who has taught her the
trick, and takes the c