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One day she threw herself in his way as he was leaving the theatre
after the performance. The others had already gone, and she had
returned upon pretence of having forgotten something.
"Will you tell me what I have done to you?" she asked him,
point-blank.
"Done to me, mademoiselle?" He did not understand.
She made a gesture of impatience. "Why do you hate me?"
"Hate you, mademoiselle? I do not hate anybody. It is the most
stupid of all the emotions. I have never hated - not even my
enemies."
"What Christian resignation!"
"As for hating you, of all people! Why... I consider you adorable.
I envy Leandre every day of my life. I have seriously thought of
setting him to play Scaramouche, and playing lovers myself."
"I don't think you would be a success," said she.
"That is the only consideration that restrains me. And yet, given
the inspiration that is given Leandre, it is possible that I might
be convincing."
"Why, what inspiration do you mean?"
"The inspiration of playing to so adorable a Climene.


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