"That is quite natural," persisted Madame Doulce. "Comedy is an
imitative art; and you imitate an art all the better for not feeling it
yourself."

"Do not delude yourself, my child," said the doctor to Félicie. "Once an
_ingénue_, always an _ingénue_. You are born an Angélique or a Dorine, a
Célimène or a Madame Pernelle. On the stage, some women are always
twenty, others are always thirty, others again are always sixty. As for
you, Mademoiselle Nanteuil, you will always be eighteen, and you will
always be an _ingénue_."

"I am quite content with my work," replied Nanteuil, "but you cannot
expect me to play all _ingénues_ with the same pleasure. There is one
part, for example, which I long to play, and that is Agnès in _L'École
des femmes_."

At the mere mention of the name of Agnès, the doctor murmured
delightedly from among his cushions:

"Mes yeux ont-ils du mal pour en donner au monde?"

"Agnès, that's a part if you like!" exclaimed Nanteuil. "I have asked
Pradel to give it me."

Pradel, the manager of the theatre, was an ex-comedian, a wideawake,
genial fellow, who had got rid of his illusions and nourished no
exaggerated hopes. He loved peace, books and women. Nanteuil had every
reason to speak well of Pradel, and she referred to him without any
feeling of ill will, and with frank directness.