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. Shall I say you are not receiving?"
I thought for a moment. Better see him, perhaps. I might learn
something. If not--if he had only come to torture me uselessly to please
himself, I would soon find out, and could send him away.
I went into my little reception-room adjoining, and received him there.
He advanced, smiling, as one advances to a friend of whose welcome one
is sure.
"Well?" I asked, abruptly, when the door was shut and we were alone. He
held out his hand, but I put mine behind me, and drew back a step when
he had come too close.
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