er, watches her with the eye of a hawk."

"It is but this, Haret," continued Monsieur Voltaire, with impatience;
"you have got an admirable little actress for nothing. Whether she
comes to ruin, you care not; whether it lands you in prison, you are
willing to take the chances; you are, in short, a scoundrel. Come,
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur."

"Sir," replied Jacques Haret, following them to the gate, "I am in
this business for my living, not for my health, which is admirable,
thank you. There are risks in all trades--a wit is always liable to
get in prison in these days, especially if he cracks his wit on his
betters. I believe you have had two sojourns in the Bastille yourself,
Monsieur Voltaire. Well, you survive and smile, and I may be as
fortunate. Good evening, Monsieur; good evening, Mademoiselle."

Neither Mademoiselle Lecouvreur nor Monsieur Voltaire replied to him,
but getting into the coach in which they came, were driven away under
a narrow archway and were out of sight in a minute.

Jacques Haret's mention of a serving-man directed my attention to an
elderly man in the well-known purple and canary livery of Madame
Riano, who stood close to the stage, never budging from his place. He
was a respectable looking creature, with faithfulness writ large all
over him. Homely, as well as elderly, he had the most speaking and
pathetic eyes I have ever seen in any head. Just now, his expression
of anxiety would have melted a heart of stone. And if he were in any
way responsible for his young mistress's being in that place, he did
well to be anxious.

There was still another piece to be given, and the audience was
awaiting it impatiently. The rays of the declining sun were level
then, and the sweet, green, retired place looked sweeter and greener
and more retired than ever. In the midst of the hush the stage was
thwacked and the curtain parted. I happened to glance toward Lafarge,
the actor. He stealthily raised his hands and brought them noiselessly
together. All at once, the garden seemed full of soldiers. Lafarge
pointed out Jacques Haret to an officer, who laid a heavy hand on him,
saying:

"I arrest you for giving a theatrical performance without a license."

Jacques Haret began to bluster. It was no use. He grew sarcastic.

"This, I presume, is at the instigation of that rascal Lafarge," he
cried. "The people passing by here stop and pay a few pence, and see a
better performance than can be seen at the Comed