familiar they seem to me—how I feel at home thus surrounded—how I am reminded of my jeunesse.”
Upon the stage he surveyed through his gold spectacles the assembled group with a smiling, rather leering patronage. Then he whispered to Martin:
“How different are the stalls and the stage! It is wonderful! Your Mademoiselle Blondette is un peu maigre when one comes to see her close!”
“Oh, Wilford! you will never pardon me,” murmured Regine.
“Let us not speak of this now, Regine,” said Wilford. “Are you much hurt? Can you bear to be raised?”
“Why are you here? Why do you speak so kindly to me? Why do you not permit me to die? Why do you come here?”
“It may be it is my duty to be here.”
“You do not hate me?”
“No. Heaven forbid!”
“But you do not know all—you do not know all, or you would kill me—you would curse me!”
“She loves then always ce grand monsieur. Is it not so? Does it not seem so? Mon dieu! it is very interesting this scene.”
But Martin rather shrunk at the light tone of his companion.
“It is with regret I disturb this réunion of lovers, but it is time, is it not, to assume my rôle of doctor?” He advanced to Regine. “Stop, then, dear children,” he said to the ballet; “stand back, if you please; give us, then, all the air we can have. Thank you, madame,” he continued, bowing to Mrs. Bell, who at his signal relinquished her task of fanning Regine, and withdrew. “Thank you, a thousand times—that will do!”
“He is a Frenchman—the private doctor of Mademoiselle Boisfleury,” said the little ballet-girl, with very wide open eyes.
“We have want of air—it is necessary for the poor child to breathe.” He took a penknife from his pocket and cut the lace of her dress. He turned to Wilford, standing at his side abstractedly. “A glass of water, if you please, monsieur. Will you get it for me?” he asked with extreme politeness.
Wilford, hardly knowing what he was doing, went in quest of the water.
Monsieur Chose beckoned to Martin.
“Would you like to assist at the performance of a little drama in one act? he asked, with a strange grimace.
He appeared to read in Martin’s puzzled expression an answer sufficiently affirmative.
“Look, then,” he said. He removed his hat and gold spectacles carefully; he rumpled his thick black hair, and pushed it back from his face and behind his ears. He took the hands of Regine and pressed them, drawing her towards him.
“Regine!” he called in a hissing whisper. She started. With staring eyes she looked into his face.
“Regine!” he repeated. “Ma chatte bien aimée.”
“You!” she exclaimed, wildly, trying to draw her hands from his.”
“Ah, oui,” he answered, “c’est moi, chère Mimi, ma belle biche blanche!”
“Here? Am I dreaming?—am I mad? Where is Wilford? If he should see you—if he should know” She was raising her voice in a scream.”
“Silence, amie!” said the Frenchman, sternly.
“Oh, Rene!” she cried, “what have I done?—what do you wish me to do?” and she swooned back.
Wilford returned with some water. The Frenchman sprinkled some on her face, and wetted her temples and the palms of her hands.
He rose.
“Her limbs are safe,” he said, aloud, “the brain is not injured, nor the spine. For the ribs I will not say; if they press upon the lungs—the heart—it may be bad. She can be moved from here soon. It is not good for her to remain here,—it is cold—there is very much of draughts; she had better be taken to her dressing-room for the present; let a couch be brought upon which she may be carried.” He resumed his glossy hat and gold spectacles.
“It was interesting, was it not?” he asked in a low voice, turning to Martin.
“You know her, then?”
“Perhaps—a little; but behold! ce Monsieur. It is a little history of which I have revealed to you—a chapter, do you see?—that is all. Ah! ce Monsieur, regard him—the poor husband, is it not so? I have for him a grand sympathy.”
Regine recovered a little.
“Wilford!” she murmured.
He again took her hand: she opened her eyes with a shudder, and then started.
“No,” she cried, “it was a dream,—this is really Wilford!”
“The brother of Mademoiselle Boisfleury!” said the little ballet-girl, as some one else appeared upon the scene.
“Ah! behold the brother, Monsieur Alexis,” muttered Monsieur Chose. “Truly this is charming. We have quite a family réunion.”
Wilford fell back as his eyes rested upon Alexis.
“Are you much hurt, Regine?” asked Alexis as he stooped down; his voice was cold and unsympathetic enough.
“I suffer frightfully,” said the poor woman turning away her head. Perhaps she had some innate fear as to the consolation likely to be proffered her by Monsieur Alexis.
“I have great grief for you, my sister,” he said in a mocking, insulting tone that gave the lie to his words. “You will not be able to appear to-morrow night—no, nor the next, nor the next. You will not appear for a long time. Your engagement will be broken—you will be dismissed. It is terrible, is it not? Do you know who will sustain your rôle to-morrow?” He paused, and a frightful grin passed over his face. “From henceforward Mademoiselle Blondette will play Fiammetta. It is charming, is it not? How I shall applaud!”
Regine writhed as she lay; the insult gave her strength. She scowled at Monsieur Alexis.
“She will be hissed by the public!” she said hoarsely, “she is a skeleton. Away with your