64
THE NABOB.
at me; however well my mask might have been
tied on my face, I tore it off before all, and
now, the hypocrite—look—there he is."
Paul heard the dull thud of two knees falling
upon the floor; and stammering, mad with love,
thus prostrated before her, Jenkins conjured
her to marry him, to give him the right to fol-
low her everywhere, to defend her; and when
his voice failed him, strangled in a passionate
sob, which seemed to rise from the depths of
his soul, and so full of anguish that any heart
would, one should have thought, have been
moved, chiefly before the spectacle of that
splendid calm nature, in that voluptuous and
perfumed atmosphere—still Felicia was not
touched.    As haughty as ever:
" An end to this," said she, roughly. "What
you ask of me is impossible. We have nothing
to conceal from one another; after your late
confession, let me make one in my turn wliich,
though it may cost my pride a good deal, is
worthy of your perseverance—I was—Mora's
mistress!"
Paul knew that. And yet, it was so pitiful,
so sad, to hear that clear pure voice making
such a confession, in the midst of that blue at-
mosphere, intoxicating with aromas, that he felt
his heart overwhelmed with sorrow, and, in his
mouth, that bitter taste of tears which a silent
regret leaves behind it.
" I knew it," said Jenkins, with a strangled
voice. ' ' I have in my possession the letters you
wrote him."
"My letters?"
" There they are—take them' back. I know
them by heart—I have read them so often ! Ah,
what tortures for a loving heart! But what
tortures had I not felt before! When I think
that it was I—that Mora-----"
He stopped to take breath.
"What a number of pearls he swallowed! I
warned him. In vain. At last I lost all con-
trol over myself—' You wish to burn, you
wretch,'thought I; 'well, then, burn ....'"
Paul rose up frightened. Must he become
the confidant of a crime?
He was spared the shame of hearing more.
A loud knock at his door this time, told him
that the calesino was ready.
" Eh, Signor Francese------"
In the next room, reigned a sudden silence,
then came a whisper. Somebody was there,
near them, who had heard . . . Paul went down
hurriedly. He longed to be out of that room,
and escape the haunting horrorjif so much dis-
closed infamy.
As the post-chaise began to move, he per-
ceived, between those white curtains which
float from all.the windows in the south of
France, a pale face surrounded by magnificent
hair, and large Burning eyes which w7ere watch-
ing him. But he looked at Aliuo's portrait, and
that glance sufficed to dispel the troublous
vision. And now, forever cured of his old love,
he traveled until evening through the fairy land-
scape, with the pretty bride of the breakfast--
you know—who had in the folds of her modest
dress, and in her virgin mantle, all th^ violets
of Bordighera.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FIRST NIGHT OF  "REVOLTE." *
" Come down for the first act!"
Thus shouted the stage-manager, standing at
the bottom of the actors' staircase, his hands to
his mouth like a speaking-trumpet. And his
call went up, rolled and died away in the pas-
sages full of the noise of slamming doors, hur-
ried steps, and desperate calls to the coiffeur
and dressers; whilst on the landings of the
many stories, all the personages of the first act
of " Révolte " appeared successively, slow and
majestic, keeping their heads straight lest they
should disturb the least thing inlheir attires:
elegant and modern ball-costumes, new shoes
creaking with every step, the silky rustling of
ladies trains, the clinking of rich bracelets
thrown up the arm to button a glove.
All those people appear agitated, nervous,
pale under their rouge; and over the satined
shoulders, learnedly prepared and sprinkled
with flake-white, a shiver is seen to pass like
the waving of moire silk. All mouths are
parched, and, therefore, few words are spoken.
The most confident, even though they smile, have
in their eyes, in their voices, something which
betrays the hesitation of an absent mind the
dread of .the battle under the flare of the 'foot-
lights—that greatest, most powerful attraction
of an actor's profession, its piquant and ever-
renewed charm.
The stage is alive with the bustle of scene-
shifters who hurry hither and thither, jostling
one another in the soft snowy light coming from
above, which, presently, when tho curtain rises,
will be absorbed in the brilliant illumination of
the house. Cardailhac, in his black coat and
white tie, his hat cocked on one side of his
head, casts a last glance on the decoration, hur-
ries the workers, and congratulates the "walk-
ing lady " on her toilet. He hums, is resplend-
ent, superb. You would never suspect what
terrible anxiety agitates him. Drawn into the
vortex of the Nabob's ruin, he is playing his
last card this evening; for, if the new play is
not a great success, he will be compelled to
leave unpaid that marvelous scenery, those rich
silks at one hundred francs a metre. He will
then be bankrupt for the fourth time. Pshaw!
The lessee is full of confidence. Success, like
all those monsters who devour men, favors
youth; and the new name of that unknown
author flatters the superstition of the gambler.
Andre Maranne is not so confident. As the
dread moment approaches, he loses his faith in
his play, is frightened by the sight of the house,
which he looks at through the peep-hole in the
curtain, as he would in a stereoscope.
A full house—yes, full to the ceiling, not-
withstanding the advanced season, and the taste
of fashionable society for early retirement to
the country. Cardailhac, an open enemy of
nature and rural life, doing his best to keep
Parisians in Paris as long as he can, has suc-
ceeded in filling his house with as brilliant a
company as in mid-winter. Fifteen hundred
heads are swarming there, under the chandelier;
some upright, some bent down ; others turning,
inquiring, full of lights and shadows; some
closely packed in the- dark corners, under the
lower tier of boxes; others, in the boxes,
when the doors are opened, receiving the full
light of the corridor, reverberated by the white
wall. It is the same public that you ever see
on a "first night," that " All Paris" which you
meet everywhere, which carries those envied
places by storm, when it cannot obtain them as
a favor, or require them as a due.
In the stalls, all the men of fashion—mem-
'bers of clubs, shiny skulls, wide partings of thin
hair, light colored gloves, opera-glasses turned
in every direction. In the galleries a mixture
of "worlds" and toilets—white bonnets, pink
bonnets, diamonds and rouge—well-known
names, ever present on such solemn occasions
as this, an annoying promiscuity which places
the reserved and chaste smile of an honest
woman next to the bold burning looks of Kohl,
and the painted lips of others like her. Above
these, the boxes present the same confusion—
actresses, demi-monde, ministers, ambassadors,
renowned authors and critics—the latter, stern
and grave, knit their brows, sit sideways in
their stalls with the affected arrogance of incor-
ruptible judges. The lowest side boxes, more
splendid and luminous than the rest, are occu-
pied by celebrated bankers, decollete and bare-
armed women, streaming with precious stones
like the Queen of Sheba visiting Solomon. On
the left, one of those spacious boxes, quite
empty, attracts attention by its strange fantastic
decoration and its Moorish-lantern. Over all
this assemblage floats an impalpable dust—the
vibration of the gas and its smell, which mingle
with all Parisian pleasures; the short, shrill,
hissing sound, like the breathing of a consump-
tive person, which accompanies the sharp mo-
tion of fans. Last of all, ennui, that dull feel-
ing of weariness induced by the everlasting
sight of the same people at the same places,
with all their defects and poses—that uniform-
ity of worldly assemblages which, every winter,
introduces in Paris a sort of provincial society,
tittle-tattling, scandal-loving, more exclusive
than the very " province" itself.
Maranne noticing that dullness and weariness
of the public, and thinking how much his mod-
est life, hitherto all " hopeward," might be af-
fected by the success of his drama, anxiously
asked himself what he might do to establish
sympathy between himself and those thousands
of beings, to tear them away from their pre-
occupation about themselves, their looks and
attitudes, to establish one single current, which
would bring back to him and fix on his play
those absent minds attuned to different keys,
and so hard to keep in harmonious unison. He
instinctively looked for friendly faces towards
a front box filled with Joyeuses.    On the front
seat, Elise and the little girls, behind them
Aline and the old father—a delightful fan?
group, which, among the other spectators, w!
like a bouquet steeped in dew in the midst i
artificial flowers. And, whilst " all Paris" -X
scornfully inquiring " Who were those people
our poet remitted his fate to those little i4
hands which had put fresh gloves on for K
occasion, and would, presently, when the pr0B
er time came, give the signal for applause.
" Clear the stage, quick!"
Maranne has just time to slip behind a siè
scene, when all at once he hears, as if from,
great distance, the first words of his play whic
rise like a flight of timid birds in the silence ol
the immense house. Terrible moment this'
Whither shall he go? What can he do? Reniai,
stuck against a post, listening, with a heart fu»
of tremulous anguish, encouraging the actors
when he himself so much requires encoura»
ment? No, he prefers looking at the danger'
face to face ; and, therefore, slipping out by %
little door which leads into the corridor "behind
tho boxes, he goes to a box which a woman
opens for him.
" Hush, it is I," he whispers.
Somebody is sitting there, alone, in the hack
—a woman whom all Paris knows, and who is
concealing herself. Andre sits near her; and
pressing close to each other, invisible to all
mother and son assist at the representation it
great tremor.
The first feeling of the public was one o!
great stupefaction. That Theatre des Nouveauta
situated in the very heart of the Boulevard
where its portico spreads itself out in the ligbt'
among the great restaurants and fashionabli
clubs, that theatre where men brought their
mistresses to while away the time between
dinner and supper, to hear one or two acts ol
licentious badinage, had become, under tit
direction of its witty manager, the most run
after of all Parisian spectacles. It did not
confine itself to any one branch of entertain-
ment, but tried them all in turn, from
operetta, where the actresses show as mud
nakedness as they dare, to the great modern
drama, where our morals are laid bare before
our eyes. Cardailhac was chiefly anxious to
justify his title of Directeur des Nouveautés, and
since the Nabob's, millions buoyed up the con-
cern, he did his best to prepare, for tbe loungers
of Boulevard macadam, the most dazzling
surprises. That of this evening threw all
the previous ones in the shade—the play was in
verse, and—moral.
A moral play I
The old monkey had understood that the mo-
ment had come to try that dodge, and he tried
it. After the first minute's astonishment, after
a few exclamations of disappointment, here and
there in the boxes—" Hallo! It is in verse—the
house began to feel the charm of that vigorous
and healthy work. It was as if some genius had
poured over it, in its close atmosphere, some
fresh and sharp essence, an elixir of .life per-
fumed with mountain thyme.
" How nice! How soothing!"
Such was the general cry. Each verse pro-
duced a liitle flutter of satisfaction, a calm,
comfortable repose. He felt soothed^ that fat
Hemerlingue, gasping for breath in his box, like
a pig in a trough of purple satin. So did that
tall Susanne Bloch feel soothed, with her hait
a l'antique, and little curls passing beneath her
gold diadem; and Amy Ferat, dressed all in
white, like a bride, with orange blossoms stuck
anyhow in her hair, she too, I assure you, felt
soothed.
There were present a crowd of creatures,
some of them very fat—unclean grease collected
in all sorts of seraglios—with triple chins, stupid-
looking; others absolutely green, in spite of
their rouge—as if they had been soaked in a bath
of that arseniate of copper known as vert A
Paris in the trade—so wrinkled and faded that
they tried to hide themselves in the back of(
their boxes, and only showed part of a white
arm or a shoulder, which they thrust forward,
because it was still round and plump.
There were also some of those effeminate
worn-out dandies—called petits crevés in those
days —their   necks   stretched   forward,   their
lower lips hanging down, too weak to stand on
their legs, or to articulate a whole word.
Well, all those people exclaimed together:
" How nice—how soothing!"
Handsome Moëssard hummed  those words
under his little fair moustache; and his queen,
in her front box, in the lower tier, translated.»
in her barbarous tongue.   Yes, that was A