Count Saxe, a king's son, who had been brought up at court, listened
to the recitals of us, the children of the poor, and I believe,
learned some things he had not known before.

Not even Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's sad situation could disarm the
jealousy of the women who envied her Count Saxe's devotion. There was
one of them, the Duchesse de Bouillon, who, like Jacques Haret, was
one of the devil's darlings, and kept shop for him. Every night that
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur acted, during that last winter, Madame de
Bouillon was present blazing with jewels, and with the air of gloating
over the great artist who was already serenely looking into the quiet
land. This duchess was a handsome creature, and a Circe; she turned
men into beasts.

Whenever Mademoiselle Lecouvreur played, there was always a great
attendance of her friends--although for that matter, all Paris was her
friend. It was amazing how this woman's spirit mastered her body. When
she would be carried to and from her coach, tottering as she stepped
upon the stage, the very first sight of the sea of sympathizing faces,
the roar of many approving voices, seemed to pour life into her veins.
She would become erect and smiling--at once Art and Genius appeared
like sustaining angels to her--and she would resume her power as a
queen assumes her scepter.

Toward the end of February it was plain she was going fast. Monsieur
Voltaire and Count Saxe were with her every day, now only choosing
separate hours for their visits. One mild March evening, at the door
of her house in the Marais, I met Count Saxe coming out. He had a
strange look on his face. I asked if Mademoiselle Lecouvreur would be
able to act that night.

"No," he said. "She will act no more."

He passed on, without another word. I noticed how pale he was. He
walked to the corner of the street, where a splendid coach was
waiting--Madame de Bouillon's coach. That woman watched for him and
waylaid him on his way from Adrienne's house.

I turned and walked away. The night was bright and mild, and the stars
were out. A short distance off, I came face to face with Monsieur
Voltaire. I had never liked this man, but in one aspect, and that was
his earnest devotion to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. Something like
sympathy made me stop him and say to him that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur
would not act that night--nor any more I feared.

He gazed at me with those black, burning eyes of his, and then as if
speaking to h