When Esperance returned to the Boulevard Raspail, she found her
parents much elated at her success. Count Styvens, who had been
present at the competition, had hurried to tell them the good news and
give them all the details of their daughter's significant triumph.
"She surpassed herself in _Phedre_," he had said. "She is, I
think, the equal to some of the greatest tragedienes," and when they
told Esperance she said, "Is he still here?" looking towards the
salon.
"No, he did not wish to weary you. He only left this note:"
"_You were divine in Phedre, delightfully feminine in Barberine. No
one is happier at your phenomenal success than your always devoted,
Albert Styvens._"
Esperance felt a world of gratitude to the young Count for not having
waited to see her. She went into her room to undress, and in doing so
drew gently from her belt the white orchid. She was about to put it in
one of the two vases on the mantel-piece, when her hand paused of its
own accord and remained inert; her gaze had been caught by the Duke de
Morlay-La-Branche's gardenias in the other vase. Radiant with
freshness it caught the eye, it invited her to come and smell. The
girl bent towards its whiteness. The intoxicating perfume held her.
Her head drooped nearer and nearer the delicate blossoms. Her lip
touched the smooth flesh of the petal. She trembled violently and
threw her head back. It seemed as if a kiss had been given her! She
quivered, closing her eyes, longing for the unpleasant feeling to
pass.
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