ostensibly for the general public, for literary neophytes, and for his
creditors, duns, and other annoying persons whom he kept on the
threshold of private life. His real home, his fine existence, his
presentation of himself before his friends, was in the house of
Mademoiselle Florine, a second-class comedy actress, where, for ten
years, the said friends, journalists, certain authors, and writers in
general disported themselves in the society of equally illustrious
actresses. For ten years Raoul had attached himself so closely to this
woman that he passed more than half his life with her; he took all his
meals at her house unless he had some friend to invite, or an
invitation to dinner elsewhere.

To consummate corruption, Florine added a lively wit, which
intercourse with artists had developed and practice sharpened day by
day. Wit is thought to be a quality rare in comedians. It is so
natural to suppose that persons who spend their lives in showing
things on the outside have nothing within. But if we reflect on the
small number of actors and actresses who live in each century, and
also on how many dramatic authors and fascinating women this
population has supplied relatively to its numbers, it is allowable to
refute that opinion, which rests, and apparently will rest forever, on
a criticism made against dramatic artists,--namely, that their
personal sentiments are destroyed by the plastic presentation of
passions; whereas, in fact, they put into their art only their gifts
of mind, memory, and imagination. Great artists are beings who, to
quote Napoleon, can cut off at will the connection which Nature has
put between the senses and thought. Moliere and Talma, in their old
age, were more in love than ordinary men in all their lives.

Accustomed to listen to journalists, who guess at most things, putting