Chevalier, having resumed his ordinary clothes, sat in a corner box, beside Madame Doulce, gazing at Felicie, a small remote figure on the stage.

And remembering the days when he had held her in his arms, in his attic in the Rue des Martyrs, he wept with grief and rage.
They had met last year at a fete given under the patronage of Lecureuil, the deputy; a benefit performance given in aid of poor actors of the ninth _arrondissement_.

He had prowled around her, dumb, famishing, and with blazing eyes.

For a whole fortnight he had pursued her incessantly.
Cold and unmoved, she had appeared to ignore him.

Then, suddenly, she surrendered; so suddenly that when he left her that day, still radiant and amazed, he had said a stupid thing.