another twelve hours to the day. But even so far, nothing has been
said of the art of acting, the expression of passion, the practice of
positions and gesture, the minute care and watchfulness required on
the stage, where a thousand opera-glasses are ready to detect a flaw,
--labors which consumed the life and thought of Talma, Lekain, Baron,
Contat, Clairon, Champmesle. In these infernal "coulisses" self-love
has no sex; the artist who triumphs, be it man or woman, has all the
other men and women against him or her. Then, as to money, however
many engagements Florine may have, her salary does not cover the costs
of her stage toilet, which, in addition to its costumes, requires an
immense variety of long gloves, shoes, and frippery; and all this
exclusive of her personal clothing. The first third of such a life is
spent in struggling and imploring; the next third, in getting a
foothold; the last third, in defending it. If happiness is frantically
grasped, it is because it is so rare, so long desired, and found at
last only amid the odious fictitious pleasures and smiles of such a
life.

As for Florine, Raoul's power in the press was like a protecting
sceptre; he spared her many cares and anxieties; she clung to him less
as a lover than a prop; she took care of him like a father, she
deceived him like a husband; but she would readily have sacrificed all
she had to him. Raoul could, and did do everything for her vanity as
an actress, for the peace of her self-love, and for her future on the
stage. Without the intervention of a successful author, there is no
successful actress; Champmesle was due to Racine, like Mars to Monvel
and Andrieux. Florine could do nothing in return for Raoul, though she
would gladly have been useful and necessary to him. She reckoned on
the charms of habit to keep him by her; she was always ready to open
her salons and display the luxury of her dinners and suppers for his