displeased, he gave his tongue free rein; if a play had been hissed,
he would protest, boiling with rage, against the public verdict, and
would continue to support the author more stanchly than ever. If on
the contrary it scored a hit, he merely kept silent and smiled
ecstatically, but never sought out the successful author in order to
congratulate him. And if the latter should complain of his
indifference, his answer was:

"Now that you have shown that you can use your wings, will you please,
my friend, will you please leave me free to succor some other poor
fellow?"

His private life offered little of special interest. Every night,
upon leaving the theater, he betook himself to the _Café Habanero_,
where he habitually consumed a beefsteak, together with a small
measure of beer. And, according to a certain friend, who had watched
him repeatedly, he always managed his repast so artfully as to finish,
at one and the same time, the last mouthful of meat, the last fragment
of bread, and the last draught of beer.

On this particular night the little gathering was unwontedly animated.
The actress's friends indulged more freely than usual in gossip and
laughter. Don Jerónimo, muffled closely in his cape (one of his
privileges), lounging at ease in the big corner chair, and with his
inevitable cigar between his teeth (another special privilege), was
giving utterance to rare and racy stories, which from time to time
caused his hearers to cast a glance in the direction of Clotilde and
brought a slightly heightened color to the latter's cheeks.

Don Jerónimo himself took no notice of this; he had first known her as