agreeing that it “ought not to be allowed,” and enjoying their suppers amazingly.
Had a doctor been sent for? Yes. Two or three men had started off to call in a doctor. Nervous, excitable men, most anxious to be of use—scared, and desirous to be away from a painful scene—to assist from a distance. Not good people to send on such an errand. They would go dashing about for some time, running at their topmost speed in vague directions, only gradually conscious at last of the real object of their hurry—to bring a doctor into the theatre, to the aid of the sufferer—and a good half-hour would be lost.
There was great confusion. A huddle of carpenters in paper caps stood round, in stooping attitudes, their palms on their knees, as though they were at a private dog-fight, or round a horse slipped down in the Strand.
“She ain’t dead,” said one. “I see her move just then. Didn’t you, Bill?”
Grimshaw pushed through, picking his teeth with a penknife, and tolerably calm.
“Now—get along, you women,” he cried to the corps de ballet. “You can’t do any good. You carpenters, be off. I won’t have my stage blocked up in this way.” (These orders were strengthened by strong adjectives—too strong indeed for printing.) “Mrs. Bell”—he singled out a coryphée, she was one of those dancers who are generally very much at the back of the stage during the performances—whose youth is a thing quite of the past—and who are, in most cases, mothers of large families, if not grandmothers—“Mrs. Bell, you understand these things. Can she be moved? You think not—not just yet? Very well; let her remain here for the present, until the doctor comes. Something to put under her head? Certainly. By all means. Here, Hobson! Where’s the property master? Bring a cushion, or something. A glass of water, Mrs. Bell? Certainly. Fetch a glass, some of you girls.”
A whisper went through the throng—a look of surprise—something of a snigger, perhaps—’midst all the alarm and sorrow and sympathy. It was said that the husband of Madlle. Boisfleury had come down to the theatre. Some one spoke on the subject to Grimshaw.
“Let him come, of course,” said Grimshaw. “I never knew she had a husband,” he added, in a lower voice, as he turned on his heel: “but somehow these women always do have husbands. I don’t see that he has any grounds for an action, however.” He invoked—not a blessing upon husbands generally, and then went away to abuse an inebriated scene-shifter, and discuss with Tacker the performance of the morrow.
“If she’s too bad to show,” he said, “who are we to put into the part? Is Celine strong enough? She’s ugly, I know; but her figger ain’t bad.”
Wilford Hadfield was led to where the poor woman was lying.
A pillow had been placed under her head. To effect this it had been necessary to raise her a little. The pain so occasioned, in a measure, restored her to animation. She was sprinkled with water, and Mrs. Bell was busy bathing her temples and fanning her. She shivered—her lips parted—her eyes half-opened—she drew together her hands, her fingers twitching convulsively.
“Her arms ain’t broken, at any rate,” said a carpenter, who still loitered near. Perhaps he had experience of accidents.
“Regine!” said Wilford, in a low, deep voice. He knelt at her side. Her head turned in the direction of his voice. She gazed into his face in a wild, dazzled sort of way.
“You, Wilford?” she asked at last; “and here?”
“I saw all,” he said. “Do you suffer much?” and he took her hand.
“You wished me dead, are you satisfied?” she moaned, closing her eyes again, and shivering.
There was another movement among the crowd, now at some distance from the sufferer. Two gentlemen approached.
“The doctor,” people said to each other.
“Are you a doctor?” whispered Martin to Monsieur Chose.
“Have no fear!” was the calm answer.
“Ah!” cried Martin. “He is here, then!” And his eyes lighted upon the figure of Wilford, kneeling at the side of Regine.
“It is true,” Monsieur Chose muttered, “the gentleman from the Soho quarter. You know him?” he inquired of Martin.
A little ballet-girl, with a frightened, childish face, stepped forward. She had overheard the inquiry. She had a timid, shy manner, but the excitement of the occasion gave her courage. Perhaps she was amazed that the doctor did not hasten to his patient, was anxious that he should lose no time by standing on ceremony.
“He is only the husband of Mademoiselle Boisfleury,” she said.
The Frenchman uttered a strange ejaculation—a sort of click in his throat which might signify anything—surprise, inquiry, suppressed laughter, regret, anything.
“Only the husband!” he said, and nudged his companion.
“You wished me dead, are you satisfied?” Regine asked again in a trembling voice.
Monsieur Chose overheard. He whispered in Martin’s ear:
“Regard, then—how women are clever! How quick to avail themselves of a chance, to twist it to their own advantage! How it is extraordinary! See! she would have him to believe—the tall white gentleman with the beard—that she fell not by accident, but on purpose. It is wise! It is admirable! Women are superb, always! If she has done him a wrong, will he not pardon her now? How all that is adorable!”
Martin did not appear to enjoy especially the opportunity his companion had selected for descanting upon feminine peculiarities. But he already understood that Monsieur Chose was not a gentleman of any great depth of feeling. Monsieur Chose had not hurried himself in making his way to the stage; he had even loitered to point out one or two details of stage management he deemed worthy of observation.
“Mon dieu!” he said, with a smiling approval as they came along, “how are all these things curious and interesting and full of charm! How