THE DOLL IN THE PINK SILK DRESS

How can I write the fourth Act with this ridiculous thing posed among
my papers? What thing? It is a doll in a pink silk dress--an elaborate
doll that walks, and talks, and warbles snatches from the operas. A
terrible lot it cost! Why does an old dramatist keep a doll on his
study table? I do not keep it there. It came in a box from the
Boulevard an hour ago, and I took it from its wrappings to admire its
accomplishments again--and ever since it has been reminding me that
women are strange beings.

Yes, women are strange, and this toy sets me thinking of one woman in
particular: that woman who sued, supplicated for my help, and then,
when she had all my interest--Confound the doll; here is the incident,
just as it happened!

It happened when all Paris flocked to see my plays and "Paul de
Varenne" was a name to conjure with. Fashions change. To-day I am a
little out of the running, perhaps; younger men have shot forward. In
those days I was still supreme, I was master of the Stage.

Listen! It was a spring morning, and I was lolling at my study window,
scenting the lilac in the air. Maximin, my secretary, came in and said:

"Mademoiselle Jeanne Laurent asks if she can see you, monsieur."

"Who is mademoiselle Jeanne Laurent?" I inquired.