heels.  And then came Monticelli, the premiere danseuse, in a coat and skirt, and then some of her rivals.  And as the terrible Director did not protest, the room continued to fill until it was full to the doors, where stood a semicircle of soiled, ragged scene-shifters and a few fat old women, who were probably dressers.  Who could protest on such a night?  The democracy of a concerted triumph reigned.  Everybody was joyous, madly happy.  Everybody had done something; everybody shared the prestige, and the rank and file might safely take generals by the hand.

Diaz was then the centre of attraction.  It was recognised that he had entered that sphere from a wider one, bringing with him a radiance brighter than he found there.  He was divine last night.  All felt that he was divine.  He spoke to everyone with an admirable modesty, gaily, his eyes laughing.  Several women kissed him, including Morenita.  Not that I minded.  In the theatre the code is different, coarser, more banal.  He alone raised this crowd above its usual level and gave it distinction.

Someone suggested that, as the piano was there, he should play, and the demand ran from mouth to mouth.  Villedo, appreciating its audacity, made a gesture to indicate that such a thing could not be asked.  But Diaz instantly said that, if it would give pleasure, he would play with pleasure.

And he sat down to the piano, and looked round, smiling, and the room was hushed in a moment, and each face was turned towards him.

‘What?’ he ejaculated.  And then, as no definite recommendation was offered, he said:  ‘Do you wish that I improvise?’

The idea was accepted with passionate, noisy enthusiasm.

A cold perspiration broke out over my whole body.  I must have turned very pale.

‘You are not ill, madame?’ asked that ridiculous fop, Montferiot, who had been presented to me, and was whispering the most fatuous compliments.

‘No, I thank you.’

The fact was that Diaz, since his retirement, had not yet played to anyone except myself.  This was his first appearance.  I was afraid for him.  I trembled for him.  I need not have done.  He was absolutely master of his powers.  His fingers announced, quite simply, one of the most successful airs from La Valliere, and then he began to decorate it with an amazing lacework of variations, and finished with a bravura display such as no pianist could have surpassed.  The performance, marvellous in itself, was precisely suited to that audience, and it electrified the audience; it electrified even me.  Diaz fought his way through kisses and embraces to Villedo, who stood on his toes and wept and put his arms round Diaz’ neck.

‘Cher maitre,’ he cried, ‘you overwhelm us!’

‘You are too kind, all of you,’ said Diaz.  ’I must ask permission to retire.  I have to conduct Mademoiselle Peel to her hotel, and there is much for me to do during the night.  You know I start very early to-morrow.’