am now an old man crushed under adverse fortune; but in happier
days there was at Rome a _diva_ of a beauty so magnificent and
a genius so enthralling that cardinals fought to the death at
the door of her box; well, sir, that sublime creature I have
pressed to my bosom, and I have been informed since that with her
last sigh she breathed my name. I am like an old ruined temple,
degraded by the passage of time and the violence of men's hands,
yet sanctified for ever by the goddess."

This tale, whether it recalled in exaggerated terms some commonplace
intrigue of his young days in Italy, or more likely was a pure
fiction based on romantic episodes he had read in novels, was
accepted by Jean as authentic and vastly impressive. The effect
was startling, amazing. In an instant he beheld, with all the
miraculous clearness of a vision, there, standing between the
tables, the queen of tragedy he adored; he saw the locks braided
in antique fashion, the long gold pendants drooping from either
ear, the bare arms and the white face with scarlet lips. And
he cried aloud:

"I too love an actress."

He was drinking, never heeding what the liquor was; but lo! it
was a philtre he swallowed that revivified his passion. Then a
torrent of words rose flooding to his lips. The plays he had
seen, _Cinna, Bajazet_, the stern beauty of Émilie, the
sweet ferocity of Roxana, the sight of the actress cloaked in
velvet, her face shining so pale and clear in the darkness, his
longings, his hopes, his undying love, he recounted everything
with cries and tears.