I insisted on dressing at once, and took as long as I could in the process of making up; still, when I was ready there was more than half an hour to spare before the first act.

There were letters for me--the kind that always come to the theatre--but I couldn't read them, after I had occupied myself with tearing open the envelopes.

I knew what they would be: vows of adoration from strangers; poems by budding poets; petitions for advice from girls and young men who wanted to go on the stage; requests from artists who wanted to paint my picture.

There were always such things every night, especially after the opening of a new play.
I was still aimlessly breaking fantastic seals, and staring unseeingly at crests and coronets, when there came a knock at the door.

Marianne opened it, to speak for a moment with the stage door keeper.
"Mademoiselle," she whispered, coming to me, "Monsieur le Comte Godensky wishes to see you.