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At the bar Heise and Ryer ordered cocktails, Marcus called for a "creme Yvette" in order to astonish the others. The dentist spoke for a glass of beer. "Say, look here," suddenly exclaimed Heise as they took their glasses. "Look here, you fellahs," he had turned to Marcus and the dentist.
"Madame will take her egg-and-milk before going to rehearsal?" "Yes, Yvette. Bring it to me here, please." "You have a rehearsal to-day?" I asked. "I hope I'm not detaining you." "Not at all. The call is for three o'clock. This is the second one, and they fixed the hour to suit me. It is really my first rehearsal, because at the previous one I was too hoarse to sing a note." I rose to go.
As Yvette did not answer the Marquise said: "I only hope that nothing has happened. I am beginning to be afraid." Then Servigny, plucking red roses from a big rosebush trained along the wall and buds not yet opened, began to throw them into the room through the window. At the first rose that fell at her side, Yvette started and almost cried out.
But Yvette, her candle snuffed out, had returned to her balcony, barefoot, gliding like a shadow, and she listened, consumed by an unhappy and confused suspicion. She could not see, as she was above them, on the roof of the terrace. She heard nothing but a murmur of voices, and her heart beat so fast that she could actually hear its throbbing. A window closed on the floor above her.
"Yes, I went out for a walk in the rain to refresh myself." The maid picked up the skirts, stockings, and wet shoes; then she went away carrying on her arm, with fastidious precautions, these garments, soaked as the clothes of a drowned person. And Yvette waited, well knowing that her mother would come to her.
They read three or four papers, Parisian papers, and read them like true Parisians. It took a short fifteen minutes. While reading they exchanged short remarks about the new ministry, the races at Auteuil, and Yvette Guilbert particularly about Yvette Guilbert. Young Chamblard had been to hear her the day before, and he hummed the refrain: "Un fiacre allait trottinant Cahin-caha Hu dia! Hop l
She had accepted her first offer, and he was practically the only man she knew anything of. Beyond him she had seen nothing of men, or of the world; certainly she had never flirted or had men friends or enjoyed any admiration but that of her fiancé. At twenty-six Yvette began to realise that she had been cheated out of a very precious part of life and an invaluable experience.
Then at the first Sir Percival stood very still at the door-way as though he had of a sudden been turned into stone. Then he went forward and stood beside the couch and held his hands very tightly together and gazed at the Lady Yvette where she lay.
That is merely the conventional misuse of a conventional word. The art of Yvette Guilbert is certainly the art of realism. She brings before you the real life-drama of the streets, of the pot-house; she shows you the seamy side of life behind the scenes; she calls things by their right names.
At this name Yvette awoke: "My poor Muscade, can you think of such a thing? Why, the Prince has the air of a Russian in a wax-figure museum, who has won medals in a hairdressing competition." "Good! We'll drop the Prince. But you have noticed the Viscount Pierre de Belvigne?"
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