off from view by a fan, I would say to myself : " That's

Juliette ! " And each time it was not Juliette at all. The play amused me; I laughed heartily at the flat jokes which constituted the essence of the piece: I enjoyed all this perverse ineptitude, this vulgar coarseness and really found in it a quality of irony which did not lack literary merit. At the love scenes I grew sentimental. During the last intermission I met a young man whom I scarcely knew. Glad of the opportunity to pour out the banalities which had accumulated in me and were pressing for an outlet, I clung to him.

"An amazing thing, isn't it?" he said to me. " It is stunning, eh? "

" Yes, it isn't bad ! "

" Not bad ! Not bad ! . . . Why that is a masterpiece, an astounding masterpiece! What I especially like is the second act. There is a situation for you, not that ... a tense situation! Why it is high comedy, you know ! And the gowns ! And that Judic, ah ! that Judic ! . . ."

He struck his thigh and clicked his tongue :

" It got me all excited, my dear! It's astonishing! "

We thus discussed the merits of the various acts, scenes and actors.

When we were parting :

" Tell me," I asked him, " do you happen to know a certain Juliette Roux?"

" Wait now ! Oh, perfectly well ! A little brunette, very ' chic ' ? No, I got mixed up. Wait now ! Juliette Roux! Don't know her."

An hour later I was seated at a table with a glass of soda water in front of me, in the cafe de la Paix where, after the theatre, used to assemble the most beautiful representatives of the fashionable world. A great many women came in and out, insolent, loud-mouthed, their