“What can I do for you, M. Paul Emanuel?” I inquired—for M. Paul Emanuel it was, and in a state of no little excitement.

“Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make the prude. I read your skull that night you came; I see your moyens. Play you can; play you must.”

“But how, M. Paul? What do you mean?”

“There is no time to be lost,” he went on, now speaking in French; “and let us thrust to the wall all reluctance, all excuses, all minauderies. You must take a part.”

“In the vaudeville?”

“In the vaudeville. You have said it.”

I gasped, horror-struck. What did the little man mean?

“Listen!” he said. “The case shall be stated, and you shall then answer me Yes or No; and according to your answer shall I ever after estimate you.”

The scarce-suppressed impetus of a most irritable nature glowed in his cheek, fed with sharp shafts his glances—a nature the injudicious, the mawkish, the hesitating, the sullen, the affected, above all, the unyielding, might quickly render violent and implacable. Silence and attention were the best balm to apply. I listened.

“The whole matter is going to fail,” he began. “Louise Vanderkelkov has fallen ill—at least so her ridiculous mother asserts. For my part, I feel sure she might play if she would; it is only good-will that lacks. She was charged with a rôle, as you know, or do not know—it is equal; without that rôle the play is stopped. There are now but a few hours in which to learn it. Not a girl in this school would hear reason and accept the task. Forsooth, it is not an interesting, not an amiable, part; their vile amour-propre—that base quality of which women have so much—would revolt from it. Englishwomen are either the best or the worst of their sex. Dieu sait que je les déteste comme la peste, ordinairement” (this between his recreant teeth). “I apply to an Englishwoman to rescue me. What is her answer—Yes, or No?”

A thousand objections rushed into my mind—the foreign language, the limited time, the public display. Inclination recoiled, ability faltered, self-respect (that “vile quality”) trembled. “Non, non, non!” said all these; but looking up at M. Paul, and seeing in his vexed, fiery, and searching eye, a sort of appeal behind all its menace, my lips dropped the word “oui.” For a moment his rigid countenance relaxed with a quiver of content; quickly bent up again, however, he went on,—

“Vite à l’ouvrage! Here is the book; here is your rôle—read.” And I read. He did not commend; at some passages he scowled and stamped. He gave me a lesson. I diligently imitated. It was a disagreeable part—a man’s, an empty-headed fop’s. One could put into it neither heart nor soul. I hated it. The play—a mere trifle—ran chiefly on the efforts of a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a fair coquette. One lover was called the “Ours,” a good and gallant but unpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough. The other was a butterfly, a talker, and a traitor; and I was to be the butterfly, talker, and traitor.

I did my best, which was bad, I know. It provoked M. Paul; he fumed. Putting both hands to the work, I endeavoured to do better than my best. I presume he gave me credit for good intentions; he professed to be partially content. “Ça ira!” he cried; and as voices began sounding from the garden, and white dresses fluttering among the trees, he added, “You must withdraw; you must be alone to learn this. Come with me.”

Without being allowed time or power to deliberate, I found myself in the same breath convoyed along as in a species of whirlwind, upstairs, up two pair of stairs—nay, actually up three (for this fiery little man