ever lived. His jealousy escorted me everywhere like a guard of soldiers. Yet I liked him even for that. He was genuine; so sincere, so masterful with it. In all matters his methods were drastic. If he had been alive I should not be tormented by the absurd fears which I now allow to get the better of me.”

“Fears! About what?”

“To be frank, about my debut at the Op�ra Comique. I can imagine,” she smiled, “how he would have dealt with that situation.”

“You are afraid of something?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I merely fear� . There is Carlotta Deschamps.”