'I was one night at Mirabeau's--at one of those small, select receptions which none but his most intimate friends frequented. D'Entraiques was there, Lavastocque, Maurice de Talleyrand, De Noe, and a few more. We were talking of the fall of the Monarchy, and discussing whether there was in the story anything that future dramatists might successfully avail themselves of. The majority thought not, and gave their reasons. I was not able to controvert by argument such subtle critics, but I replied by improvising a scene in the Temple of Marie Antoinette writing a last letter to her children. There was no incident to give story, no accessory of scenery to suggest a picture; but I felt that the theme had its own pathetic power, and I was right. D'Entraiques shed tears; Charles de Noe sobbed aloud. "She must never repeat this," muttered Riquetti.--"Not for a while at least," said Talleyrand, smiling, as he took a pinch of snuff. From that hour I felt what it was to stir men's hearts. Then, success became real; for it was certain and assured.
Resisting all Marietta's entreaties to stay and sup with her--resisting blandishments that might have subjugated sterner moralists--Gerald quitted her to seek out his humble lodging in the 'Rue de Marais.' Like all men who have gained a victory over themselves, he was proud of his triumph, and almost boastfully contrasted his tattered dress and lowly condition with the splendour he had just left behind him.
'I suppose,' muttered he, 'I too might win success if I could stifle all sense of conscience within me, and be the slave of the vile thing they call the world. It is what men would call my own fault if I be poor and friendless--so, assuredly, Mirabeau would say.'
'Mirabeau will not say so any more then,' said a voice close beside him in the dark street.
'Simply because that great moralist is dead.'
Not noticing the half sarcasm of the epithet, Gerald eagerly asked when the event occurred.
'I can tell you almost to a minute,' said the other. 'We were just coming to the close of the third act of the piece "L'Amour le veut," where I was playing Jostard, when the news came; and the public at once called out, "Drop the curtain."'
As the speaker had just concluded these words, the light of a street lamp fell full upon his figure, and Gerald beheld a meanly clad but good-looking man of about eight-and-twenty, whose features were not unfamiliar to him.