Dynamic System Modelling and Analysis with

MATLAB and Python 1st Edition Jongrae Kim pdf

download

https://ebookmeta.com/product/dynamic-system-modelling-and-
analysis-with-matlab-and-python-1st-edition-jongrae-kim/

Download more ebook from https://ebookmeta.com

We believe these products will be a great fit for you. Click
the link to download now, or visit ebookmeta.com
to discover even more!

Environmental Data Analysis with MatLab or Python:

Principles, Applications, and Prospects 3rd Edition
William Menke

https://ebookmeta.com/product/environmental-data-analysis-with-
matlab-or-python-principles-applications-and-prospects-3rd-
edition-william-menke/

Python for MATLAB Development: Extend MATLAB with

300,000+ Modules from the Python Package Index Danial

https://ebookmeta.com/product/python-for-matlab-development-
extend-matlab-with-300000-modules-from-the-python-package-index-
danial/

Fiber Lasers: Fundamentals with MATLAB Modelling 1st

Edition Johan Meyer (Editor)

https://ebookmeta.com/product/fiber-lasers-fundamentals-with-
matlab-modelling-1st-edition-johan-meyer-editor/

Soil Health Soil Biology Soilborne Diseases and

Sustainable Agriculture A Guide 1st Edition Graham
Stirling

https://ebookmeta.com/product/soil-health-soil-biology-soilborne-
diseases-and-sustainable-agriculture-a-guide-1st-edition-graham-
stirling/
Infinity RPG Adventures in the Human Sphere 1st Edition
Justin Alexander

https://ebookmeta.com/product/infinity-rpg-adventures-in-the-
human-sphere-1st-edition-justin-alexander/

Mothering, Public Leadership, and Women's Life Writing

: Explorations in Spirituality Studies and Practical
Theology 1st Edition Claire Wolfteich

https://ebookmeta.com/product/mothering-public-leadership-and-
womens-life-writing-explorations-in-spirituality-studies-and-
practical-theology-1st-edition-claire-wolfteich/

Hell and Heaven Wayfinding 2 1st Edition Hugh Howey

https://ebookmeta.com/product/hell-and-heaven-wayfinding-2-1st-
edition-hugh-howey/

Bitty Fish Barbara Derubertis Eva Vagreti Cockrille

https://ebookmeta.com/product/bitty-fish-barbara-derubertis-eva-
vagreti-cockrille/

The Peoples of Greater Unyamwezi Tanzania Nyamwezi

Sukuma Sumbwa Kimbu Konongo East Central Africa Part
XVII Ethnographic Survey of Africa 1st Edition R G
Abrahams
https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-peoples-of-greater-unyamwezi-
tanzania-nyamwezi-sukuma-sumbwa-kimbu-konongo-east-central-
africa-part-xvii-ethnographic-survey-of-africa-1st-edition-r-g-
Tras el llamado 1st Edition Javier De La Vega Alfaro

https://ebookmeta.com/product/tras-el-llamado-1st-edition-javier-
de-la-vega-alfaro/
Dynamic System Modelling and Analysis with MATLAB and Python
 IEEE Press
445 Hoes Lane
Piscataway, NJ 08854

IEEE Press Editorial Board

Sarah Spurgeon, Editor in Chief

Jón Atli Benediktsson Andreas Molisch Diomidis Spinellis

Anjan Bose Saeid Nahavandi Ahmet Murat Tekalp
Adam Drobot Jeffrey Reed
Peter (Yong) Lian Thomas Robertazzi
Dynamic System Modelling and Analysis
with MATLAB and Python

For Control Engineers

Jongrae Kim
University of Leeds
Leeds, UK

IEEE Press Series on Control Systems Theory and Applications

Maria Domenica Di Benedetto, Series Editor
Copyright © 2023 by The Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers, Inc. All rights
reserved.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise,
except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without
either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the
appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc., 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers,
MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, fax (978) 750-4470, or on the web at www.copyright.com. Requests to
the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley &
Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, (201) 748-6011, fax (201) 748-6008, or online at
http://www.wiley.com/go/permission.

Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best
efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the
accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied
warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or
extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained
herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where
appropriate. Further, readers should be aware that websites listed in this work may have
changed or disappeared between when this work was written and when it is read. Neither the
publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages,
including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.
For general information on our other products and services or for technical support, please
contact our Customer Care Department within the United States at (800) 762-2974, outside the
United States at (317) 572-3993 or fax (317) 572-4002.
Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in
print may not be available in electronic formats. For more information about Wiley products,
visit our web site at www.wiley.com.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Applied for:

Hardback: 9781119801627

Cover Design: Wiley

Cover Images: © Bocskai Istvan/Shutterstock

Set in 9.5/12.5pt STIXTwoText by Straive, Chennai, India

To Miyoung
 vii

Contents

Preface xiii
Acknowledgements xv
Acronyms xvii
About the Companion Website xix

1 Introduction 1
1.1 Scope of the Book 1
1.2 Motivation Examples 2
1.2.1 Free-Falling Object 2
1.2.1.1 First Program in Matlab 4
1.2.1.2 First Program in Python 10
1.2.2 Ligand–Receptor Interactions 14
1.3 Organization of the Book 21
Exercises 21
Bibliography 22

2 Attitude Estimation and Control 23

2.1 Attitude Kinematics and Sensors 23
2.1.1 Solve Quaternion Kinematics 26
2.1.1.1 MATLAB 26
2.1.1.2 Python 29
2.1.2 Gyroscope Sensor Model 33
2.1.2.1 Zero-Mean Gaussian White Noise 33
2.1.2.2 Generate Random Numbers 34
2.1.2.3 Stochastic Process 40
2.1.2.4 MATLAB 41
2.1.2.5 Python 45
2.1.2.6 Gyroscope White Noise 49
2.1.2.7 Gyroscope Random Walk Noise 50
2.1.2.8 Gyroscope Simulation 53
viii Contents

2.1.3 Optical Sensor Model 57

2.2 Attitude Estimation Algorithm 64
2.2.1 A Simple Algorithm 64
2.2.2 QUEST Algorithm 65
2.2.3 Kalman Filter 66
2.2.4 Extended Kalman Filter 75
2.2.4.1 Error Dynamics 76
2.2.4.2 Bias Noise 77
2.2.4.3 Noise Propagation in Error Dynamics 78
2.2.4.4 State Transition Matrix, Φ 84
2.2.4.5 Vector Measurements 84
2.2.4.6 Summary 86
2.2.4.7 Kalman Filter Update 86
2.2.4.8 Kalman Filter Propagation 87
2.3 Attitude Dynamics and Control 88
2.3.1 Dynamics Equation of Motion 88
2.3.1.1 MATLAB 91
2.3.1.2 Python 94
2.3.2 Actuator and Control Algorithm 95
2.3.2.1 MATLAB Program 98
2.3.2.2 Python 101
2.3.2.3 Attitude Control Algorithm 103
2.3.2.4 Altitude Control Algorithm 105
2.3.2.5 Simulation 106
2.3.2.6 MATLAB 107
2.3.2.7 Robustness Analysis 107
2.3.2.8 Parallel Processing 110
Exercises 113
Bibliography 115

3 Autonomous Vehicle Mission Planning 119

3.1 Path Planning 119
3.1.1 Potential Field Method 119
3.1.1.1 MATLAB 122
3.1.1.2 Python 126
3.1.2 Graph Theory-Based Sampling Method 126
3.1.2.1 MATLAB 128
3.1.2.2 Python 129
3.1.2.3 Dijkstra’s Shortest Path Algorithm 130
3.1.2.4 MATLAB 130
3.1.2.5 Python 131
 Contents ix

3.1.3 Complex Obstacles 134

3.1.3.1 MATLAB 135
3.1.3.2 Python 141
3.2 Moving Target Tracking 145
3.2.1 UAV and Moving Target Model 145
3.2.2 Optimal Target Tracking Problem 148
3.2.2.1 MATLAB 149
3.2.2.2 Python 151
3.2.2.3 Worst-Case Scenario 153
3.2.2.4 MATLAB 157
3.2.2.5 Python 159
3.2.2.6 Optimal Control Input 164
3.3 Tracking Algorithm Implementation 167
3.3.1 Constraints 167
3.3.1.1 Minimum Turn Radius Constraints 167
3.3.1.2 Velocity Constraints 169
3.3.2 Optimal Solution 172
3.3.2.1 Control Input Sampling 172
3.3.2.2 Inside the Constraints 175
3.3.2.3 Optimal Input 177
3.3.3 Verification Simulation 180
Exercises 182
Bibliography 182

4 Biological System Modelling 185

4.1 Biomolecular Interactions 185
4.2 Deterministic Modelling 185
4.2.1 Group of Cells and Multiple Experiments 186
4.2.1.1 Model Fitting and the Measurements 188
4.2.1.2 Finding Adaptive Parameters 190
4.2.2 E. coli Tryptophan Regulation Model 191
4.2.2.1 Steady-State and Dependant Parameters 194
4.2.2.2 Padé Approximation of Time-Delay 195
4.2.2.3 State-Space Realization 196
4.2.2.4 Python 205
4.2.2.5 Model Parameter Ranges 206
4.2.2.6 Model Fitting Optimization 213
4.2.2.7 Optimal Solution (MATLAB) 221
4.2.2.8 Optimal Solution (Python) 223
4.2.2.9 Adaptive Parameters 226
4.2.2.10 Limitations 226
x Contents

4.3 Biological Oscillation 227

4.3.1 Gillespie’s Direct Method 231
4.3.2 Simulation Implementation 234
4.3.3 Robustness Analysis 241
Exercises 245
Bibliography 246

5 Biological System Control 251

5.1 Control Algorithm Implementation 251
5.1.1 PI Controller 251
5.1.1.1 Integral Term 252
5.1.1.2 Proportional Term 253
5.1.1.3 Summation of the Proportional and the Integral Terms 253
5.1.1.4 Approximated PI Controller 253
5.1.1.5 Comparison of PI Controller and the Approximation 254
5.1.2 Error Calculation: ΔP 260
5.2 Robustness Analysis: 𝜇-Analysis 269
5.2.1 Simple Examples 269
5.2.1.1 𝜇 Upper Bound 272
5.2.1.2 𝜇 Lower Bound 275
5.2.1.3 Complex Numbers in MATLAB/Python 278
5.2.2 Synthetic Circuits 280
5.2.2.1 MATLAB 281
5.2.2.2 Python 281
5.2.2.3 𝜇-Upper Bound: Geometric Approach 290
Exercises 291
Bibliography 292

6 Further Readings 295

6.1 Boolean Network 295
6.2 Network Structure Analysis 296
6.3 Spatial-Temporal Dynamics 297
6.4 Deep Learning Neural Network 298
6.5 Reinforcement Learning 298
Bibliography 298

Appendix A Solutions for Selected Exercises 301

A.1 Chapter 1 301
Exercise 1.4 301
Exercise 1.5 301
 Contents xi

A.2 Chapter 2 302

Exercise 2.5 302
A.3 Chapter 3 302
Exercise 3.1 302
Exercise 3.6 303
A.4 Chapter 4 303
Exercise 4.1 303
Exercise 4.2 303
Exercise 4.7 304
A.5 Chapter 5 304
Exercise 5.2 304
Exercise 5.3 304

Index 307
 xiii

Preface

This book is for control engineers to learn dynamic system modelling and sim-
ulation and control design and analysis using MATLAB or Python. The readers
are assumed to have the undergraduate final-year level of knowledge on ordinary
differential equations, vector calculus, probability, and basic programming.
We have verified all the MATLAB and Python codes in the book using MATLAB
R2021a and Python 3.8 in Spyder, the scientific Python development environment.
To reduce the confusion in running a particular program, most of the programs are
independent on their own. Organizing programming with multiple files is left as
an advanced skill for readers to learn after reading this book.

Leeds, West Yorkshire, England, UK Jongrae Kim

30 November 2021
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 “Not a bit,” he replied with his frightful smile; “either I am quite
ignorant of the human heart, or else she has never loved me so
much, since I have never treated her so badly.”
“If she does not tell me the story you have just told me, how am
I to turn the conversation?”
“She will tell you; then be the first to begin. Confess that I have
told you in the madness of my emotion and remorse. It will not be
a lie, for it is a fact that in the cab yesterday while I looked at
Camille sitting in her corner with fixed gaze and excited face, I
would have given everything to love her at that moment as she
loved me. Explain that I was not thinking of the other woman. I
called upon the latter to-day. What a woman, my dear friend, and
how the crack of the whip of danger made her vibrate! I found her
with her husband after breakfast, and he left us together after a
quarter of an hour’s affectionate talk, which proves that his
suspicion is at any rate a little allayed. That man does not know
how to pretend. Lately he has hardly shaken hands with me. We
did not abuse his complaisance and we were right, for I met him
returning home, as I was leaving twenty minutes later, to find out
how long my visit had lasted. There was just time for Anne to give
me the two or three most indispensable items of information. You
admire Camille’s courage, don’t you? But what will you say to the
presence of mind of this great lady who was indeed risking
something, her life perhaps, her honour without a doubt, her
position and everything which constitutes her reasons for existence.
Do you know where she went when she was able to escape. She
drove straight to a furrier’s, where she purchased an astrakhan
jacket as like the other one as possible. She had no money to pay
for it and did not like to leave her name. The idea struck her to go
to her jeweller and borrow the money. She pretended that she had
lost her purse, and then returned to the furrier’s to pay for her
jacket, picked up her own carriage, which, she had left at a friend’s
house and ordered to meet her outside the shops near the Louvre,
and reappeared at home dressed as she was when she went out.
These are the true details. Would you believe them? Her visit to the
jeweller’s and furrier’s moved me very much. How frightened she
must have been at risking them. Now all she has to do is to tell her
maid a lie to account for the difference of jackets. A mistake after
calling or trying on, that is all. But every fresh little lie is a new
landmark if the husband pursues his inquiries. This man would
shrink from questioning the servants. That is what saved us this
time. He will have had me followed, not his wife, but I was
imprudent enough to accompany her to the rooms. My luck makes
me frightened,” he added seriously, after being silent for a time.
“Yesterday’s discovery has, all the same, not destroyed
Bonnivet’s jealousy, I repeat, since he returned home during my
visit, and if Camille does not keep her promise his suspicion may be
aroused again.”
“But with this distrust and the knowledge he possesses of your
rooms,” I said, “your appointments will not be very easy to make.”
“It is for that reason that Madam de Bonnivet will not fail to keep
one now. She is a curious and bored woman, and her
commonplace adventure with me has at last given her the tremor,”
he added smilingly. “Ah, ah, she is of the same nature as the divine
marquis to some extent. But you don’t understand these things at
all, my dear boy. As for the address of the rooms, the fact that
Bonnivet knows it will make no difference. Having seen me leave
there with Camille, he will never believe me capable of taking the
other one to the Rue Nouvelle.”
“You will go on then without any fear?”
“Yes. I was frightened yesterday when I heard the ringing and
knocking at the door, and I repeat that I am sometimes afraid of
my luck. It is as stupid as believing in the evil eye, but the feeling,
is stronger than I am.”
“There is no doubt that in Camille,” I replied, “you have met the
only woman in Paris capable of such an action. If you had even a
little bit of heart, you would spend your life in making her pardon
your infamy.”
 “My dear boy,” he interrupted, “then you will never understand
that she only loves me like that because she understands that I do
not love her. Then,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “without
doubt it is a question of personality, I desire the other one and I do
not desire Camille. This explanation of love is not brilliant, and if
the abstractors of quintessence who subtilize upon the sentiment,
like your friend Dorsenne, gave it in one of their books, they would
lose their feminine clientele, their twenty-five thousand skirts I call
it. I myself am neither an analyst nor a psychologist, and I maintain
that this explanation is the true one.”
“So he told you everything!” Camille said ironically when I saw
her the day after this conversation. I had written to her, to be sure
and not miss her. I found her pale with eyes burning from
insomnia. She was in the little drawing-room in the Rue de la
Barouillére, which always looked so commonplace, poor and grey,
while its canvas-covered furniture gave it the appearance of a room
prepared for moving. “Did he boast also of the delicacy with which
his wretch of a mistress thanked me? Here,” and she handed me a
leather case with her monogram upon it, C.F., which I had noticed
her fingering nervously for five minutes. I opened the case, which
contained, glistening upon black velvet, a massive gold bracelet
incrested with diamonds. It was one of those jewels in which the
work of the goldsmith is reduced to a minimum, and of which the
brutal richness makes the present an equivalent of a cheque or a
roll of sovereigns. I looked at the bracelet, then I looked at Camille
with a look in which she could read my surprise at the method
employed by Madam de Bonnivet to pay her for her devotion.
“Yes,” the actress went on, and, in a tone of disgust which made
me ill, she repeated: “Yes, that is the object which came this very
evening with my coat. It is my medal for bravery,” she sneered. “My
first object as soon as I go out will be to give the wretch a lesson in
delicacy!”
“Be content with returning the jewel through Jacques to her,” I
suggested. “A scene would be too unworthy of you. When a person
has the whip hand, which you most certainly have, it is wise to
keep it to the end.”
“No,” she proudly said, “there will be no scene between us. I
would not have one. I will go and sell the bracelet to a jeweller,
then I will go to a church, spend the money in charity, and Madam
de Bonnivet will receive with her jacket two little pieces of paper—
one the jeweller’s bill, and a note from the priest saying, 'Received
for the poor, from Madam de Bonnivet, so much.’ This infamous
adventure will at least have served to put a fire on a fireless hearth
and a loaf of bread on an empty table.”
“Suppose the husband is there when the messenger arrives?” I
asked.
“She must explain it the best way she can,” Camille said, and a
gleam of cruelty passed into her blue eyes, which deepened in
colour almost to black. “Do you think I should have moved my little
finger to help her the day before yesterday, if it had not been
necessary to save her to save Jacques? Ah! that Jacques has not
even called to inquire after me this morning. He knows, too, that I
have not acted for two consecutive evenings. He knows me and
that emotion makes me ill. Vincent,” she added, taking my hand in
her feverish grasp, “never love. It is such madness to have a heart
in this cruel world. From Jacques I have not even had a note, two
words upon his card, the little sign of politeness one owes to a
suffering friend.”
“You are not just,” I told her, “he fears to face you. It is very
natural. He is too conscious of his faults, and, you see, he has sent
me to find out how you are.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head dolefully, “he came to see you,
because he needed you for something. Confess to me what it was?
From the first I told you that you do not know how to lie or
scheme. Oh, God! how nice it would be to love some one like you,
not in the way I love you, as a friend, but in the other way! Come,
confess that you have a commission from Jacques for me.”
 “Well, yes,” I replied after a second’s hesitation. There was such
uprightness in this strange girl, such a rare nobility of sentiment
emanated from her whole being! To finesse with her seemed to me
a real shame. I therefore gave her, simply and sadly, Jacques’
message: simply, because I reckoned, and rightly, too, that the
surest way to influence her was to state the facts without any
phrasing; sadly, because I felt the hardness of this new demand of
Molan’s. I also realized its necessity. When I had finished, tears
came into her blue eyes.
“So,” she said, with an even more bitter expression and a
disenchanted smile, in which there was much love, though it was
for ever poisoned by contempt, “he has thought of that, to save
this woman again! He finds that I have not sacrificed myself
enough. Besides, it is logical. When one has begun, as I did, one
must go on to the end. I will go.” With her forehead crossed by a
wrinkle of resolution, her eyes hard, and her mouth ugly, she went
on: “Very well, Vincent. You have repeated his words to me, and I
thank you. That must have cost you something, too! You owed me
that frankness. You promise to exactly repeat mine to him, do you
not? Tell M. Molan, then, that I will act at Madam de Bonnivet’s as
is arranged. Yes, I will act there, and no one, you understand, shall
suspect with what feelings. But it is on one condition—tell him that,
too, and if he does not keep it, I will break my promise: I forbid
him, you understand, I forbid him to write or speak to me from this
time onward. He will talk to me at that woman’s house just
sufficiently to prevent anything being noticed. That must be all. I
shall not know him afterwards, you understand. After this last act
he is dead to me. Perhaps I shall really die myself,” she added in a
stifled voice, “but it is all over between us.”
She made a gesture with her hands as of tearing up an invisible
agreement. Her eyes closed for a moment. Her features contracted
with a twitch of pain, and then this creature, so feminine in her
grace and mobility, assumed a tender look and a gentle smile as
she got up and said to me—
 “Leave me now, friend. Don’t come to see me again before I let
you know. We will finish the picture later on. I love and esteem you
very much, and feel real sympathy for you. But,” her voice was
stifled as she concluded, “but I must forget, all the same, to try
and live.” Then with a proud little inclination of her blonde head
and a courageous shrug of her slender shoulders, she concluded: “I
am not to be pitied. I have my art left.”
I knew that Camille was incapable of breaking a promise made
with such seriousness as to be almost solemnity. She had that trait
common to all persons, men or women, who attach great
importance to their feelings: a fastidious scrupulousness in keeping
unwritten agreements, reciprocal engagements. Therefore I
insisted with the greatest energy upon Jacques conforming strictly
to the condition which the actress had imposed upon him, and I
myself, great though the cost was to me, had the courage to
observe with the greatest rigour the programme of absence and
silence, the wisdom of which I understood. Around certain moral
fevers, just as around certain physical ones, there is darkness,
suppression of motion, and a total suspension of life. In spite of my
absolute faith in Camille’s word, I was not without uneasiness when
I repaired a few days later to Madam de Bonnivet’s party. I knew
that the poor Blue Duchess, if not quite restored to health, was at
least well enough to reappear at the theatre. When I say that I
followed the programme drawn up by her with the greatest rigour, I
must add that I allowed myself once to go and see her act without,
as I thought, breaking the agreement, since she did not see me
sitting in the pit, and I had a feeling of relief at seeing that there
was no difference in her acting. I came to the conclusion that she
had taken to her art again, as she had said to me, to that cult of
the theatre which had been the naïve enthusiasm of the dreams of
her youth. I hoped that that love which never deceives would cure
the wound made by the other. But in the carriage which conveyed
Jacques and I to the club, where we again dined together, this
confidence gave place to apprehension, in spite of my companion’s
optimism, he having become once more a person of an
imperturbable assurance, which seemed born to manœuvre in false
situations.
“I am curious,” he said to me, “to know what she has prepared
for her audience of swells. She has promised the great scene from
La Duchesse Blue with Bressoré, and then a few monologues and
imitations. You don’t know her in that light, do you? She has like
every actor or actress her monkey side.”
“Imitations!” I repeated. “Fashionable people are admirable. They
no sooner have in their hands an artist of talent than they become
possessed of a single idea, to degrade that talent by forcing the
possessor to become a plaything for them. If it is a painter like
Miraut, they order from him portraits with a disgusting want of
expression to put upon bon-bon boxes! If he is a man of letters like
you, they make him write bad prose and verse at a moment’s
notice! If he is a musician, he has to produce a piece for the piano
at once! In the case of an actress like Camille, with ardour,
temperament, and passion, they make a parade of her. Good God,
what foolishness it is! What is going to happen to-night?”
“Would you prefer,” sneered the dramatic author, “to hear the
plaints of Iphigenia or of Esther proclaimed ten paces away from a
buffet laden with foie gras sandwiches, punch, orangeade,
chocolate and iced champagne? On my word of honour you seem
to me admirable! But if you had the lightest tint of that
transcendental irony, without which life does not present the
slightest savour, you would find it exquisite that my pretty Blue
Duchess has saved the honour, and perhaps the life, of my
adorable Queen Anne, and that they met face to face—one playing
her part as a fashionable Parisian hostess, respected and
worshipped; the other giving her performance before an audience
of the idle; while I myself am the third person. My only regret for
the beauty of the situation is that I did not have an appointment
with both during the day. Would you believe it? Since these
happenings I desire Camille again, and I would retake her if I did
not fear to spoil her masterpiece. Yes, the masterpiece of her
rupture. For she has discovered it; there is no denying it. If André
Mareuil had not laid down his humorous pen to become a
Commissioner of Police, if he were still writing his Art de rompre
instead of drawing up regulations, I should submit the case to him.
Have you ever thought of a more divine method of a mistress
ridding herself of her lover and leaving in his mind an exquisite
memory? That is the ideal end of love.”
“Try at least to be ashamed of your egoism,” I interrupted. I
realized that he was amusing himself by making my naïveté display
itself, and that he was joking. But actually the fact that he was
unable to jest on such an occasion angered me, and I continued,
touching his breast as I did so: “Have you, then, absolutely nothing
there but a ream of paper and a bottle of ink, for the idea of this
love, devotion and sorrow, only to inspire you with one more
paradox instead of bringing tears from your eyes?”
“One must never judge what is visible,” he replied with sudden
seriousness which contrasted strangely with his former flippancy.
Did he conceal in an inner fold of his heart, poisoned though it was
with social vanity, commercial calculations and literary ambitions, a
tender corner, too small to be ever exalted into complete passion,
but sufficiently alive to sometimes bleed, and had I touched the
secret wound? Or was his one of those complicated natures which
keep just enough sensibility to suffer because they have no more?
These two latter hypothesis are not irreconcilable in such a complex
nature. They would at least explain the anomaly of a talent for
accurate human observation, being associated with such implacable
hardness of heart and a systematic and utilitarian depravity of
mind. Never had the astounding contrast between Jacques’ person
and his work struck me as it did in that rapidly moving carriage. He
was the first to break a silence which had lasted for a few minutes
by saying—he was without doubt replying to a thought my
reproaches had suggested to him—
“Besides, if it were to begin again, I should have prevented that
party. It is useless. I don’t know what fresh information Bonnivet
has received, but he is charming to me and his wife. I found both
of them the other day examining two ornaments their jeweller had
just brought. In parenthesis, what do you think of this conjugal
scene? She was clasping around her neck a necklace of pearls and
looking at herself in the glass, while her husband said to me—to
me!—as she showed me another one: 'Which one do you prefer?’
She experienced a keen pleasure at this high comedy scene. I saw
that her eyes were shining like the pearls in the necklace. At what
price had she purchased this renewal of confidence?”
“But,” I said, “did not a scene like this, and the conclusion you
drew from it, make you take your hat and stick and go away, never
to return?”
“You are not, and never will be, intellectual, my dear boy,” he
replied. “Understand that there is a sort of bitter and ferocious joy
in despising what one desires, just as there is in enjoying what one
hates. That is how Queen Anne holds me fast, perhaps for a long
time, just as I hold her fast by the attraction of the danger
involved. We have already, since the affair, revisited the rooms in
the Rue Nouvelle; would you believe it? Decidedly there is no
tincture of cantharides like fear?”
“That is folly,” I cried, “to tempt fate like that!”
“Quite right,” he said with a shrug of the shoulders, “but one
must live to write. There is a play in this story, and I will not miss
it.”
We reached Madam de Bonnivet’s house, and found a long string
of carriages already in the street. I was to find a great difference
between the almost familiar reception of the other evening and my
reception now. It seemed as if Jacques had in those few minutes
tried to give a complete representation of the different phases of
character of this human lighthouse. While we ascended the carved
wooden staircase, with its wealth of pictures, busts, tapestry, and
ancient stuffs, he whispered to me this last expression, which had
nothing cunning nor dandified about it, but was simply the childish
vanity of the middle-class gentleman engaged in a love affair—
“You must admit that my friend is not badly housed?”
I am quite sure that at that moment the carpets upon which his
pumps rested warmed a secret place in his heart. I am certain that
the lustre on that staircase illuminated the darkest depths of his
snobbish conceit. I am sure that a conqueror’s pride swelled his
chest as he said to himself in these luxurious surroundings: “I am
her lover.” He had become during the last few weeks too
transparent for this shade of his sensibility to escape me. Each of
his words was like the striking of a clock, the works of which are in
a glass case. When the sound strikes the ear one can see the little
cogwheels bite the large ones and the complicated mechanism at
work.
The hall doors had opened, and Jacques and myself were at once
separated. The spectacle, which this room, vaulted like a chapel
and unknown to me, and the two drawing-rooms opening from it
presented, awakened the painter in me, the man used to vibrating
by a look. In a corner of the hall a little platform had been erected,
which was empty just then. There were perhaps fifty women sitting
with a like number of men, all in evening dress, and the women’s
jewels sparkled in their blonde or dark hair and on their naked
shoulders. The entire range of colours was displayed in these
various toilettes, which were heightened by their contrast with the
black coats and the details which had on my first visit to this house
so displeased me, the too composite character of the decorations,
blended and harmonized as they were in this light with the aid of
the moving crowd. Fans were waving, eyes shining, faces were
animated by questions and answers, and Queen Anne, towards
whom I went to pay my respects, really had in her white evening
dress the majestic air of a princess worshipped by her courtiers.
As I approached her, I thought of the mortal peril she had been
in the other week. There seemed to me no more trace of it in her
pale azure eyes than there was of jealousy upon Bonnivet’s
beaming face. For the first, and, without doubt, the last time in my
life, I was supplied with positive information about a fashionable
intrigue. Usually one does not know the history of these fine
gentlemen and beautiful ladies except from a vague “they say.” A
woman is suspected of having so and so for a lover, and a man is
suspected of having so and so as his mistress. This suspicion,
which to people of their class is equivalent to certainty, is not
reduced to exactness. The street and number of the house where
they meet is not known. It is not known under what circumstances
they start for the rendezvous. A door remains open to doubt, and if
not open it is ajar.
As I bowed to Madam de Bonnivet and received her greeting in
the form of an amiable commonplace, I could see this haughty
head on the pillow in the chamber of adultery, and the terror of her
disturbed features when the continuous ringing of the bell and the
repeated knocking at the door had warned her of her danger. The
contrast was so sharp that for the first time I understood the
unhealthy attraction which this to some extent double existence
exercises over certain imaginations, and why women or men who
have tasted these sensations no longer find any relish in others.
Such profound and perilous deception procures something like an
evil intoxication, the pleasure of a really superior and almost
demoniac hypocrisy, to the man or woman who lie in that fashion.
To this kind of infernal falsehood belonged the phrase which
Madam de Bonnivet used to close our rapid and uninteresting
conversation.
“There is some one who would not forgive me for detaining you
any longer,” she said, and the point of her fan indicated a direction
which my glance followed. I saw Camille Favier, whom at that
moment Jacques was approaching. “Go and speak to her,” she
continued, “and tell your friend Molan that I have a little
commission for him while I think of it.”
I was prepared, on arriving that evening, to encounter much
coolness in this woman, who was depraved by coldness a coquette
through egoism, and curious even as regards vice through idleness.
I had not even thought the audacity of such a phrase addressed by
her to me who knew everything possible. In spite of my firm
intention not to allow my impressions to appear, she read my
astonishment in my face. Her half-closed eyes darted at me the
most incisive look which has ever fathomed the soul of a man to its
depths. Without doubt, regarding her liaison with Molan, she
thought I had only one of those hypotheses, which I was unable to
verify, one of those hypotheses which grow around those so-called
mysteries, Parisian love affairs, and that I could not very well
conceal my deductions. The acuteness of her eyes became dulled
into indulgent irony, and I left her to obey the order she had given
me, but in part only. She had obviously calculated, with her habit of
relying upon the evil sentiments of her intimates, that I should be
only too happy to convey her message to Jacques in Camille’s
presence, to make their quarrel all the worse and put my friend in a
somewhat false position. She was to find out that a good fellow of
a painter did not lend himself to this pleasantry. I approached the
two lovers as if the beautiful enemy of the pretty actress had not
entrusted me with any commission. They were only exchanging,
according to agreement, the most indispensable polite phrases in a
loud voice—
“Have you come to this corner of Bohemia, then?” Molan said,
my presence restoring his natural assurance to him; “it is quite
natural that you should.”
“Do not boast,” I replied in a tone of banter with a foundation of
truth to it similar to the one he affected. “It is a long time since you
passed as a man of the world.”
“Big words!” he said still gaily. “I am off. Don’t talk too much ill of
your friend Jacques, and do not monopolize her too much,” he
added, turning to me; “she must do a little flirting to be a success
with the men.”
He went away with the renewed desire, of which he had spoken
to me, shining in his eyes. Camille had bowed as he went without
speaking, but with a smile in which I, who knew her so well, could
read so much suffering and disgust. She fanned herself nervously,
while I looked at her with an emotion which I did not endeavour to
conceal. We were in our out-of-the-way corner like two outcasts,
though our sorrowful tête-à-tête was very brief! Senneterre was
already on his way towards us from the other end of the hall with a
young man who had asked to be introduced to Camille. Those two
minutes sufficed for us to exchange a few phrases which redoubled
my impression of danger. It had continually increased ever since I
had entered the house.
“So you are come,” the actress said, “thank you;” and in a
supplicating tone she added: “Do not leave me this evening, if you
love me a little.”
“Don’t you feel well?” I asked.
“I have presumed too much upon my strength,” she replied. “I
was quite well up to the moment I was presented to this woman
and heard her voice. Oh! that voice! Then Jacques came in, and I
felt ill. Look, he is going to her. They are talking, and are alone. Go
and tell him that he must not trample too much upon my heart. I
am exhausted, and can bear no more.”
She pronounced these last few words hesitatingly, and forced
herself to smile, a convulsive smile like a nervous tremor. I do not
think that I have ever seen her so beautiful. The absence of jewels
in the midst of these well-dressed women and the simplicity of her
toilette in these luxurious surroundings gave her something like a
tragic character. I had no time to reply, for the professional “beater”
was there with his stereotyped phrase—
“Mademoiselle, allow me to present to you my young friend,
Roland de Bréves, one of your most passionate admirers.”
“With what selections are you going to charm us with this
evening, mademoiselle?” the young noodle asked Camille, who was
still vibrating with emotion. “It is rare good fortune to hear you in
society; Madam de Bonnivet will make many people jealous.”
 “Really there is no occasion for it, sir,” Camille replied, and to
correct his impertinence added: “I shall give a scene from La
Duchesse Blue with Bressoré, and then three or four fragments.
Besides, your curiosity will soon be satisfied, for I can see Bressoré
coming. He was acting this evening in the new play, but he has got
away early. What luck!”
“What good fortune for us,” her questioner said, “who will hear
you all the sooner!”
“No,” she brutally said, “for me to be able to go to bed all the
sooner.”
She turned her back on the young man, who was disconcerted
by the harshness of this strange reply, to exchange a few equally
amiable words with another gentleman who greeted her. The
insolence of the phrases she uttered, she who was usually so
gracious, proved quite well that she was hardly mistress of herself.
Of what an outburst she would be capable if Madam de Bonnivet,
as her attitude towards Jacques at that moment made me fear,
gave too bold a display of coquetry. My anxiety was suddenly borne
to its highest pitch. I understood that in insisting upon Camille
figuring at this party, the cruel woman had not only proposed to
put her husband’s suspicions at rest for ever. For that she relied
upon other weapons. The dominant trait of her implacable nature
was vanity, and this vanity wished to have the actress at her mercy,
to revenge herself for the two humiliations she could not forget—
the insulting heroism at the rooms, and the return of the bill for the
bracelet with the receipt from the priest of Saint François Xaviers.
Wounded in her most secret susceptibilities, she had promised
herself that for two or three hours she would keep her rival, who
was then in her employ, at her house, to inflame her again and
again with the most poignant and powerless jealousy, and leave
herself free to pardon her after the punishment and forget her, and
also the man of letters whom she had taken from the actress. He
had already ceased to interest her, now that he no longer
represented another women whose happiness she wished to steal.
She would soon give proof of it, and also that the fop was bragging
when he thought that he had awakened her to the pleasure of love.
In spite of so many and such disturbing emotions, she had left his
arms as insensible, as far off as ever that total ravishment by
person which metamorphoses a coquette into a slave and enslaves
her to the man who has initiated her into this complete
intoxication. She acted, however, during this evening as if she had
loved Jacques. The desire of torturing the woman by whom she
had been so strangely saved and wounded was strong enough in
her blasé heart to equal physical pleasure. I gained this evidence
upon the spot by watching her in the distance talking, while I was
making my way towards the spot where she was laughing with
Jacques, though my progress was interrupted at intervals by
Machault, further on by Miraut, and then by Bonnivet.
The first of the three said to me: “I have not seen you at the
school of arms lately. You missed the Italian fencer, San Giobbe. He
is really wonderful.”
“You did not tell me the other day,” the second said, “that you
were painting Camille Favier’s portrait. It is very underhand of you
to treat your old master in that way!”
“Ah well, M. La Croix,” Bonnivet asked, “are you going to hang
anything at the next exhibition?”
I felt inclined to answer the incorrigible fencer: “It is not a
question of assaults, parade and laughable combats; do you not
see that there is a prospect of a real duel, actual sword thrusts,
and the sacrifice of some one’s life?” To my dear master I felt
inclined to say: “I shall not make you sell a picture more, shall I?
Why play the part with me of a protector who is interested in the
work of one of his pupils? Spare me this comedy, and let me try to
prevent a catastrophe.” To the husband I would like to have said:
“If you had watched over your wife more carefully in the beginning
she would not be what she is, and this drama would not be
enacted in your drawing-room.” In place of those replies, in each
case I uttered a few vain, untruthful words. My desire was to reach
Jacques soon enough at least to prevent him being in the vicinity of
Madam de Bonnivet while the acting was going on. Perhaps I
should succeed, as I was only a couple of paces away from him,
when Queen Anne, as if she had guessed that I was this time
bearing a message from her rival and should deliver it, decided to
call me, and said in a tone of imperceptible raillery—
“Let me present you to the woman in Paris who knows most
about the primitive Italians about whom you were talking to me the
other evening.”
“Really, sir,” the person to whom I was to be thus linked, an
insupportable blue stocking, whose name, if my memory does not
deceive me, was Madam de Sermoise, said, “do you admire those
idealist masters who are so little appreciated in our days of gross
realism? But we shall return to them, and to a noble and lofty art.
You have been to Pisa, of course, to Sienna, to San Gemigorano
and Perugia?”
O sweet little red and golden towns of lovely green Tuscany,
which indent with your towers the heights of the slopes planted
with vines and olives! O generous artists with whom I lived so long,
and whose visions are to me still my soul’s daily bread! Pardon me
if I blasphemed your memory and your cult in replying as I did to
the odious pedant. I declared to her that her hostess was making
fun of her. I told her that I was a member of the grotesquely
modern school of art. But my indignation did not last. Madam de
Bonnivet had just asked Camille Favier and Bressoré to begin. She
gave the signal for the guests to take their seats before the space
reserved for the two actors who were to play; and she made
Jacques Molan sit by her side, saying loud enough for me to hear—
“Every honour shall be shown to the author!”
Then followed a few moments of general disturbance of couches
and chairs, the occupation of the seats by the women, leaving
almost all the men to stand, and the gradual establishment of
silence. In the midst of the last of the whispering came the sudden
sound of the voices of the two performers, the dialogue, and the
discreet applause of the audience of people of leisure; but I hardly
noticed the details so did my heart beat, and does still to-day, at
the recollection of that long-past hour.
Knowing as I did the minutest expressions of Camille’s mobile
face, the slightest shades of her gestures, the most tenuous
inflections of her voice, I had realized from the first words of the
scene that she had lost control of herself. Madam de Bonnivet had
seen it too. She affected, while bowing her head at the fine points
and being the first to applaud, to lean towards Jacques a little too
far, to speak to him in low tones, and render him that public
homage which was the simple politeness of an admirer of the
fashionable author! But to Camille, the wronged and desperate
mistress, the insolence of this attitude was too atrocious, and it
was impossible for the actress to bear it without taking her
revenge. I believed at first that she would try to humiliate her
formidable rival by her success, so much eloquence and passion did
she display in the short scene she was acting.
After that was ended, when she was asked to recite one or two
pieces, I thought she would restrict her vengeance to sharing a
little of her success with two of Jacques’ colleagues, of whom he is
jealous, unless she chose these two poems because in reciting
them she was also solacing her own poor deserted heart. One of
these poems was by René Vincy, and the other was an unpublished
sonnet by Claude Larcher which I had copied for her. Dear Claude!
How beautiful Camille was while she recited this elegy which had
for me so many moving souvenirs of my dead friend’s sorrow. She
recited one or two other pieces, and then quickly and in a joking
way which reassured me for a second, she began to give those
imitations which are always ignoble and sometimes vulgar. The
divine Julia Bartet, the suffering and finely vibrating Tanagra in
Antigone, the supple and poignant Réjane in Germinie Lacerteux,
the pathetic Jane Hading in Sapho, the sprightly Jeanne Granier
and the tragic Marthe Brandés were in turn the pretext for a
mimicry which testified to a study of the art of these famous artists
so profound as to be almost a science, and to that monkeyish frolic
of which Molan had spoken, till having announced Sarah Bernhardt
in Phédre, a shiver went through my whole frame.
She began and I suddenly recalled Adrienne Lecouvreur and the
scene in which the actress, seeing Maurice de Saxe, whom she
loved, flirting with the Duchess de Bouillon during a drawing-room
performance, recited those same lines of Racine’s and ended by
applying to her in a loud voice the imprecation of the poet’s
incestuous queen. Had Camille, an actress like Adrienne, in love,
too, like her, like her betrayed under circumstances which I
suddenly realized were very similar, coolly premeditated the same
vengeance? Or did the excess of her anger inspire her all at once
with this manner of outraging her unworthy lover and his mistress?
I could distinctly see now upon her face a terrible intention, and I
listened to her with my eyes fixed upon Jacques as she uttered that
admirable line—
“The heart is full of sighs it has not uttered.”
But her overpowering emotion already prevented from imitating
the accent of the admirable Sarah. She pronounced in her own way
and on her own behalf the poet’s lines, and advanced to the edge
of the little stage with the denunciatory gesture which is in
Adrienne Lecouvreur. Her arms were pointed towards Madam de
Bonnivet. She darted at her enemy a look of mad jealousy as she
uttered the irreparable words—
“I know my wickedness Œnone, and am not one of those bold
women who, enjoying in crime a shameful peace, have learned to
keep an unblushing face.”
 CHAPTER X

I have often seen Adrienne Lecouvreur acted, since that evening

whose events I am recalling, with a tremor of the heart simply at
the remembrance of the anguish I felt while Camille was
performing this mad action. I have always noticed that the
audience are gripped by this scene. As regards myself, both before
and after the performance by Camille upon the improvised stage at
Bonnivet’s house, this scene has always moved me so that I found
the action indicated by the book quite natural—I had the curiosity
to consult it. Adrienne continues to advance towards the princess,
to whom she points with her finger, remaining some time in this
attitude, while the ladies and gentlemen who have followed her
movements rise as if in affright. It was without any doubt a similar
effect on the audience of terror, for ever dishonouring to her rival,
that the despised mistress had, in a flash of blind passion, resolved
to produce at the risk of the most terrible consequences.
I awaited this terrible effect with as frightful a certainty as if I
could see in Camille’s hand a loaded weapon pointed at Madam de
Bonnivet. To-day, when my mind goes back to those moments in
which my heart leapt with apprehension, I cannot help smiling.
Every one of the audience without doubt knew Adrienne
Lecouvreur if not like I did, at least well enough to recall the
situation which was so dramatic as to be easily intelligible. Every
one had trembled at the Théâtre Français when they saw Sarah
Bernhardt or Bartet advance towards the Princess de Bouillon as
Camille advanced towards Madam de Bonnivet. But, except those
who were directly interested in this scene, not one of the audience
appeared to understand the young actress’ sinister intention.
 No one, I am certain, instituted, between the scene being
enacted before them at that moment and the one they had seen
acted ten or twenty times at the theatre, a comparison which
would have been a revelation. The actress herself, stupefied at
what she had dared to do and the results, mechanically continued
the tirade as if in a dream. Automatically, too, the tones of Sarah
Bernhardt came back to her as she concluded. She stopped amid a
most flattering murmur from all sides, the discreet applause of the
fashionable before a wonderful feat marvellously executed. One
could hear such phrases as: “Very lifelike! Shutting your eyes you
would think you were listening to Sarah! How gifted the little one
is! It is not given to every one to possess talent like that!”
Madam de Bonnivet, who had been the first to clap, had got up
and gone to Camille, to whom she said with a smile, the amiability
of which was her crowning insolence—
“Exquisite, mademoiselle, exquisite. I am very grateful to you.
Was it not exquisite, Molan? Will you give Mademoiselle Favier your
arm and take her to the buffet?”
Really I am not suspected of sympathy for the audacious woman
whose abominable coquetry had exasperated the poor actress to
the extent of this astounding insult. But I must do her the justice to
admit that she had really a majestic way of thus bringing to naught
Camille’s justice. I distinctly heard her voice pronounce the phrase
in spite of the hum of conversation and the noise of the moving of
chairs and couches, and I saw Camille look at her with a
somnambulist’s look, and also give her arm to Jacques in quite a
passive and subdued way. Her astonishment at daring what she
had dared and at nothing happening had left her incapable of reply,
feeling or thought. She was like a murderess who had fired at her
victim and seen the bullet rebound from his forehead, without even
inflicting a scratch. She had not, nor had I, a mind sufficiently
disengaged to perceive in what had taken place a proof among a
thousand that an irreducible difference separates the life presented
upon the stage from the life which is really lived. She was the
victim of an attack of nerves which first showed itself in this
astonishment, or rather bewilderment, and almost immediately
afterwards by a fit of half convulsive laughter which wounded me
severely.
I gladly left the spot where she was with Jacques surrounded by
men who knew her and were paying her compliments. I came
across Bonnivet directly. His forehead was red, its veins swollen, his
eyes were clear and at the same time flaming, and these things
with the tremors through his whole body suddenly caused the fear
I had felt a few minutes before to return to me. Even if to the rest
of the audience the insult hurled in the fashionable lady’s face by
the actress had passed unnoticed, a circumstance which was
explained by the fact that they had no notion of Jacques’ position
between his two mistresses, the husband himself had perceived
this insult, and it required all his self-control to swallow the affront
as he had done. He listened, or pretended to listen, to Senneterre,
whose volubility showed that he, too, had understood the
significance of the scene acted by Camille, and that he was
trembling with fear lest Bonnivet also understood. The husband
was automatically curling his moustache with his right hand, while I
felt sure he was digging the nails of his left, which was hidden, into
his chest.
I was not the only one to feel that this man was in a fury, nor to
notice his forehead, eyes and gestures, which displayed the obvious
signs, to a painter, of a formidable moral tempest. I saw the group
of gentlemen near which I was dissolve to make room for Madam
de Bonnivet, who was approaching her husband. In the same way
that a little while before she had found a smile of supreme
contempt, with which to congratulate Camille Favier and reply to
the insult of an atrocious allusion by the insult of an implacable
indifference, now she found a tender and affectionate smile to reply
to her husband’s suddenly aggravated suspicions. She brought him
in her gracious and affectionate smile an indisputable proof of her
clear conscience. The sensation of her presence was necessary to
this man at the moment and she had realized this, and also that
the physical reality of her voice, of her look, of her breath, the
evidence, too, of her tranquillity would impose upon her jealous
husband a suggestion of calmness. Serenely radiant in her
sumptuous white toilette, her eyes clear and gay, a half smile upon
her pretty mouth, and fanning her lovely face with a gentle little
motion which hardly disturbed the golden hair upon her brow, she
walked towards him, hypnotizing him with her look. I could see at
her approach the unhappy man’s face relax, while Bressoré, whom
I knew, took my arm and whispered in my ear—
“How smart she is! But, La Croix, as you are a friend of Favier’s, I
hope you will make her understand that her way of conducting
herself this evening is very bad for me and for all of us! Why this is
a house where we are received like swells, and yet because she is
jealous of the mistress of the house and Molan, she behaves like a
fool and treats her as Adrienne Lecouvreur did! I saw it coming and
I saw it pass, and now I have not a dry stitch of clothing on me. It
did not strike home, it is true, but it might have done so. But then
if the audience did not understand, the husband and wife did. I tell
you this house is closed to us for the future. They have had their fill
of acting at home by this time. Frankly, put yourself in their place,
it would not do at all, would it? I am not more straight-laced than
most, and I have my fancies, but I always behave in a gentlemanly
way.”
The comic plaint of the old actor, who was trembling for his social
status, put a note of buffoonery into the adventure. I soothed the
old man to the best of my ability, assuring him that he was
mistaken, though without hope of convincing him. What a fine
picture he would have made, with his mobile blue eyes looking out
piercingly from his clean-shaven face, over which seemed to float
an everlasting grimace! He had so much and such astounding good
fortune that his glance upon the real bad side of life was like that of
a diplomat. His countless mistresses had so well instructed him in
the particulars of Parisian fashionable and gay life that he was no
longer the dupe of any one or anything. He nodded his head
incredulously at my protests and replied to me with the inherent
familiarity of his profession, in spite of the principles of breeding he
had just professed with such solemnity.
“You know, my dear fellow, La Croix, I am a very good boy and I
like to try and give pleasure by appearing to believe what I am
told, but I can’t swallow that!”
Our little conversation had taken us, the actor and myself, into a
corner of the drawing-room near the hall door, which was open. I
judged that poor Camille would not be long in leaving, and that the
best thing would be for me to wait for her outside and speak to her
then so that Bonnivet’s eyes would not be fixed upon us during our
talk. If no unfortunate accident happened I felt sure that now
Queen Anne would arrange to definitely withdraw from the intrigue.
I was quite sure, too, that Jacques would not be the one to end the
affair. I knew his self-control. He would not betray himself. I knew
that outbursts like Camille’s are at once followed by prostration,
and I felt sure that she had allowed herself to be taken to the
buffet like a cowed animal. Senneterre and Bressoré, the other two
witnesses who had understood all the secrets of this scene, were
not the men to let their perspicacity be apparent. One loved
Madam de Bonnivet too sincerely, the other was too preoccupied in
playing his part as the correct artist. Only I myself was likely by my
nervousness to betray my knowledge. I therefore glided between
two groups towards the staircase, and as I was doing so felt my
hand seized. It was Molan, who said in a jerky voice—
“Let us leave together. I want to speak to you.”
“I am going at once,” I replied.
“So am I; the coast is clear, let us be off.”
We went downstairs without exchanging a word. We put on our
coats in silence under the critical eyes of the footmen. It was not
till we reached the street that Jacques said to me, while he
clutched my arm with a force which proved his anger—
“Were you present at the scene? Did you see what that infamous
actress dared to do to me?”
 “I saw that she had her revenge,” I told him. “Frankly, you well
deserved it, both you and Madam de Bonnivet. But still it had no
consequences and no one perceived her intentions.”
“No one? Did you take Madam de Bonnivet for a fool, and her
husband too? Do you think he did not see through it all? As Camille
knew, too, his jealous disposition after the risk she had seen me
run, it was infamous, I tell you, it was abominable. But I will teach
her that I am not to be laughed at like that,” he went on with
increasing violence. As he uttered this threat he turned back
towards the house we had just left, and I had to hold him back by
the arm while I said—
“Surely you are not going back there to make a scene?”
“No,” he said, “but I know the driver of the carriage she uses for
her evening engagements, I engaged him regularly for her. I have
always been so good to her! I will stop her carriage. I will punish
her here in the street. It is her proper place, and I will tell her so.”
“You will not do that,” I interrupted him taking up a position in
front of him and speaking in a low voice. Now I was afraid of the
curiosity of the drivers who were sitting on the boxes of a long
string of carriages.
“I will do it,” he replied, beside himself, and just at that moment
the porter called a carriage and we heard a name which caused
Molan to burst out into a laugh, that of Camille herself.
“I beg of you,” I said to the madman, “if you have no regard for
Camille think of Madam de Bonnivet!”
“You are right,” he replied after a short silence, “I will control
myself. But I must speak to her, I must. I will get into the carriage
with her, that is all.”
“But if she will not allow it?”
“Allow it!” he said with a shrug of the shoulders. “You shall see.”
 A carriage had left the rank while we were talking, a shabby
hired brougham. Its commonness contrasted strangely with the
other vehicles which were waiting in the long street. The time this
carriage took to enter beneath the archway and emerge again from
it seemed to me interminable. If my companion allowed himself to
be disrespectful to Camille I had made up my mind what to do.
At last the carriage reappeared and a woman’s form was visible
through the window, wrapped in a cloak with a high collar which I
recognized only too well. It was Camille. Jacques called out to the
driver, who recognized him, and was on the point of pulling up
when the window was let down and we could hear the actress call
out: “23, Rue Lincoln, don’t you hear me? Do you take your orders
from that gentleman?” Turning to me she said: “Vincent, if you do
not prevent that individual,” and she pointed to Jacques, “from
trying to get into my carriage I shall call the police.” The silhouettes
of two policemen appeared quite black in the light of the lamps,
and though the dialogue had been short the sound of the voices
had made some of the men sitting on the boxes of the other
carriages lean forward. In the face of this threat Jacques dare not
turn the handle of the carriage door on which he had his hand. He
stepped back and the carriage drove away while Camille’s voice
repeated in a tone I shall never forget—
“23, the Rue Lincoln, as fast as you can go.”
“Ah, well!” I said to Jacques after a short silence, as he was
standing motionless upon the pavement.
“Ah, well! She guessed what was waiting for her,” he replied
sharply, “and she fled. Make your mind easy, the opportunity is only
put off, not lost entirely. But why can she be going to 23, Rue
Lincoln?”
“It is an address she gave haphazard,” I said, “to make you
jealous and make you think she was going to keep an appointment.
She will give another order to her driver as soon as she is round
the corner.”