d. She had graciously remembered
our early acquaintance when Count Saxe took me to her house--for he
took me everywhere he went--and she treated me with the greatest
kindness always; for which I love and thank her forever.

I was sorry to see she looked pale and weary in the strong afternoon
light--she was ever frail, and adorned the world only too short a
time. She wore neither rouge nor patches, nor was she ever remarkable
for beauty; but she was charming as only Adrienne Lecouvreur was
charming. As for Monsieur Voltaire, he looked both prosperous and
impudent--and when Jacques Haret paid him a compliment he replied with
a wink:

"Dear sir, I am not Monsieur Voltaire. That fellow is in the Bastille.
I, as you see, am tall and thin and not ill-looking, while Voltaire,
it is well known, is short and stout and red of hair--and is the worst
poet in France besides."

Jacques Haret winked back.

"Truly," said he, "I was mistaken. As you say, Monsieur Voltaire is a
short, red-haired man--but he is not the worst poet in France. The
creature has written some things that are not so bad--the _Henriade_,
for example--it could not be better if I had done it myself. And I
have made a little play after his _Mariamne_, which is not so bad
either--my actors will now have pleasure in giving it. What a pity you
are not Monsieur Voltaire!"

At this, Monsieur Voltaire laughed--he had a huge laugh and a loud and
rich voice, and eyes that glowed like coals of fire. Nobody having
once seen this man could forget him, or mistake him for another.

Then, amid a stormy clapping of hands, Jacques Haret gave three great
thumps with a stick on the floor of the stage, in imitation of the
House of Moliere, the curtain was pulled apart and the little play
began.

In a few minutes, the child actress advertised as Mademoiselle
Adrienne came upon the stage, and was greeted with uproarious
applause.

She was no child, but a young girl of thirteen or possibly fourteen,
and taller than the cobbler's boy, who played opposite to her. She was
not strictly beautiful, but she had a spark of Heaven's own light in
her deep, dark eyes--and she had the most eloquent red mouth I ever
saw, with a little, bewitching curve in it, that made a faint dimple
in her cheek. The blond wig she wore evidently disguised hair of satin
blackness. She was slight and unformed, but graceful beyond words.
Jacques Haret's version of _Mariamne_ was a very good one--what a
mult