With arms extended toward her like pump-handles they all simultaneously assured her of their admiration.
And Madame Doulce, stifled by their numbers, left on the buttons of the men's garments shreds of her countless adornments of cotton lace.
The last act was Nanteuil's triumph.

She obtained better things from the public than tears and shouts.

She won from all eyes that moist yet tearless gaze, from every breast that deep yet almost silent murmur, which beauty alone has power to compel.
She felt that she had grown immeasurably in a single instant, and when the curtain fell she whispered: "This time I've done it!" She was unrobing herself in her dressing-room, which was filled with baskets of orchids, bouquets of roses, and bunches of lilac, when a telegram was brought to her.

She tore it open.

It was a message from The Hague containing these words: "My heartfelt congratulations on your undoubted success--Robert." Just as she finished reading it Dr.Trublet entered the dressing-room.
She flung her arms, burning with joy and fatigue, round his neck; she drew him to her warm moist bosom, and planted on his meditative Silenus-like face a smacking kiss from her intoxicated lips.
Socrates, who was a wise man, took the kiss as a gift from the gods, knowing full well that it was not intended for him, but was dedicated to glory and to love.
Nanteuil realized herself that in her intoxication she had perhaps charged her lips with too ardent a breath, for, throwing her arms apart, she exclaimed: "It can't be helped! I am so happy!".