Then, with trembling hands and scarcely knowing what
he was doing, he quickly undressed, got into the cool
sheets, and stretching himself out comfortably, he
almost forgot his love in the pleasure he found, tired
out as he was, in the contact of the linen. She
did not return, however, no doubt finding amusement
in making him languish. He closed his eyes with
a feeling of exquisite comfort, and reflected peaceably
while waiting for what he so ardently longed for.
But by degrees his limbs grew languid and his thoughts
became indistinct and fleeting, until his fatigue
gained the upper hand and he fell asleep.
He slept that unconquerable, heavy sleep of the worn-out
hunter, and he slept until daylight; and then, as
the window had remained half open, the crowing of
a cock suddenly woke him, and the baron opened his
eyes, and feeling a woman’s body against his,
finding himself, much to his surprise, in a strange
bed, and remembering nothing for a moment, he stammered:
“What? Where am I? What is the matter?”
Then she, who had not been asleep at all, looking
at this unkempt man, with red eyes and swollen lips,
replied in the haughty tone of voice in which she
occasionally spoke to her husband:
“It is nothing; it is only a cock crowing.
Go and sleep again, Monsieur, it has nothing to do
with you.”
The Duchess Huguette de Lionzac was very much infatuated
with herself, but then she had a perfect right to
be, and who, in her place, would not have shown a
spice of conceit? There was no success which she
had wished for, that she had not attained. She
had received a medal for sculpture at the Salon,
and at the Exhibition of Excessives she had
shown a water-color which looked eccentric, even there.
She had published a collection of poems which was
crowned by the French Academy, and a small volume
of Rhythmic Prose of which the Revue de
lemain said, “That it showed the most subtle
and evanescent performance of those fugitive pieces
which was sure to descend to posterity,” and
when she acted in private theatricals, some exclaimed:
“It is better than the Comedie Francaise,”
while others, who were more refined, went so far as
to utter the supreme praise: “Better than
the Theatre Libre.”
At one time, there had been a report, which had been
propagated by the newspapers, that she was going to
come out at the Opera Comique, in a part that
had been written especially for her extraordinary voice,
for it appeared that Massenet would not hear of anybody
else for the part.
She was the circus-rider, Miss Edith, who, under that
assumed name gave that unique and never-to-be-forgotten
exhibition of horsemanship, and you remember what
cheers there were, and what quantities of flowers
covered the arena! And you must not forget that
this was before a paying public!
