Three days after Jules' talk with Marshall, the forthcoming engagement at the Hippodrome of Miss Lottie King was announced in the London newspapers. Blanche signed a new contract, by which she agreed to perform for several weeks longer on the trapeze and on the rope at half the salary she had been receiving. Marshall said that no mention of the plunge would be made in the papers; her name would continue to "draw," and the public would be satisfied with Miss King's great dive into the tank. This remark made Jules very angry, and it also depressed Blanche, who felt as if she had already been deposed from her supremacy as the chief attraction at the Hippodrome. Indeed, as the time drew near when she was to cease making the plunge, instead of feeling happier, she grew more despondent; she had already elaborated her performance on the trapeze by introducing several new feats that she and Jules had planned together, but with these she was not satisfied; she felt like an actor obliged to play small parts after winning success in leading characters.

As for Jules, he did not try to hide his discontent at the change in his wife's work. In the first place, it made his brief but dramatic public appearance unnecessary; in future he would be obliged to conduct Blanche to the circus, and live again like any mere hanger-on to the skirts of a public performer. The rÔle was ignoble, unworthy of him. Then, too, he chafed at the thought of his wife's decline in importance at the Hippodrome; he fancied that when her inability to go on with the plunge had become known to the other performers they would lose respect for her and for himself.

He secretly doubted if the public would accept Blanche merely for her performance on the trapeze and on the rope. Almost any one could do that; but in the plunge she was without a rival. He hoped that, as a compensation for his vexation, the performance of Miss King would be a failure. Forty feet! What did that amount to in comparison with the magnificent plunge of more than ninety feet that Blanche had made at Vienna?

Already Jules had begun to think of his wife in the past tense chiefly, as if she lived in the triumphs she had made by her nightly flight through the air. Indeed, she seemed to him almost another person now. Instead of looking on her almost with reverence, as he had done, he felt sorry for her, as if she were his inferior; and though he continued to treat her with kindness, there was a suggestion of pity, almost of contempt, in his manner toward her. She sought consolation in her child, who, she thought, grew stronger and more beautiful every day. For Jeanne's sake she tried to be glad the time was so near when she should give up risking her life; but the nearer it grew, the more depressed she became, and the more she thought about that woman who was to take her place.

Mrs. Tate, who had definitely taken Blanche under her protection, and called at the little hotel several times each week, had been delighted at what she considered the fortunate solution of a shocking difficulty. Now that Blanche was to stop making that horrible dive, there was no reason why she shouldn't be the happiest woman in the world. With her keen instinct, however, she observed that Blanche was not happy; she wondered, too, at the frequent absence of the husband from this mÉnage. Jules couldn't be very devoted, she thought, for a man who had been married little more than a year. Perhaps, however, he avoided her; for, in spite of his French politeness, he had not been able to conceal his dislike for her. For this reason she did not ask him to dinner again. She often took Blanche and Jeanne to drive in the afternoon, and pointed out the celebrities that they passed in the Park.

"My husband says I take you to drive just to show you off," she said jokingly one day. "He thinks I have a mania for celebrities."

"Ah, but I'm not a celebrity!" Blanche replied, with a smile that was almost sad.

"Not a celebrity? Of course you are. I haven't a doubt that half the people we meet recognize you. You know, it's been quite the fashion to go to the Hippodrome this year."

"But I sha'n't be a celebrity much longer," said Blanche, glancing at the bare boughs of the trees, and wondering if any other place could be as desolate as London in winter.

"Why not? You don't think of retiring into private life altogether, do you?" Mrs. Tate laughed.

"No, but I shall only be an ordinary performer after this week."

"But I'd rather be an ordinary performer and keep my neck whole than be an extraordinary one and risk my life every night," Mrs. Tate retorted sharply. She was vexed with Blanche for not appreciating her emancipation.

They rode on in silence for a few moments. Then Blanche said,—

"There's some one going to take my place, you know."

"Some one that's going to make that dreadful plunge?" Mrs. Tate cried in horror.

"No, not that. She jumps into a tank of water—from a platform—only about forty feet. My jump is more than seventy-five feet," Blanche added with a touch of pride.

Mrs. Tate rested her hands in her lap and burst out laughing. "What a ridiculous thing! I beg your pardon, dear, but I can't help being amused. Of course it doesn't seem funny to you. You're used to it; but it does to me."

Then she questioned Blanche about the new performer, and Blanche repeated what Jules had told her and what she had since heard of the woman at the Hippodrome. Mrs. Tate was greatly interested, and laughed immoderately; afterward, however, when she had returned home and thought over the conversation, she regarded it more seriously.

"What do you think, Percy?" she said at the dinner table that night. "Those Hippodrome people have engaged a creature to dive into a tank of water from a platform. Of course, that's to take the place of Madame Le Baron's plunge. Could anything be more absurd? The worst of it is that the poor little woman is frightfully jealous already. I could see that from the way she talked. What a dreadful world it is, isn't it? They're all like that, aren't they, even the best of them? Do you remember that poor Madame Gardini who sang here one night? She told me if she had her life to live over again she'd never dream of going on the stage. She said opera-singers were the unhappiest people in the world,—just poisoned with jealousy. And these circus people are exactly like them!"

"What makes you think she's jealous? What was it she said?"

"It wasn't what she said, it was the way she talked about the woman. Her husband says she's a great beauty."

"Ah, the husband says so, does he?" Tate remarked dryly. A moment later he added: "I wish you hadn't had anything to do with those people!"

"You've said that a dozen times, Percy, and I wish you'd stop. For my part, I'm very glad I've met them. If I hadn't, that poor little creature would be in her grave before the end of a year."

"Perhaps she'll wish that she were in her grave before the end of the year."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, dear, nothing. Don't catch at everything I say. How is she now—any better? I suppose she's easier in mind now that she's going to stop that diving?"

"That's the strangest thing about it," Mrs. Tate answered, with a change of tone. "I thought she would be, too, but she isn't. I really believe she's sorry she's giving it up. But perhaps that's because she's been doing it all her life. She'll miss it at first—even if it did worry her nearly to death!"

"Has Dr. Broughton been to see her lately?"

"No; he said it wouldn't be necessary. He's going to wait to see what effect the rest from the diving will have on her."

For a few moments Tate looked thoughtfully at his wife. "Upon my word," he said, "I half suspect that you want something to happen to that little woman. It would just be romantic enough to suit you."

"Percy, how can you talk so? You're simply brutal."

"She might at least break a leg to please you," her husband laughed, "before giving up that plunge."

Blanche made her last dive without the accident that Tate had regarded as indispensable to dramatic effect. Indeed, since knowing that she was to give it up, she seemed to have lost much of her terror of the plunge; she thought of it now chiefly with regret. That night, as she rode home with Jules and Madeleine, she seemed depressed; Jules, too, was even more sullen than he had been for the past two weeks. When they had entered the lodgings and were eating their midnight meal, she said:—

"If to-morrow is pleasant we might take Jeanne for a drive in the country. The air would do her good."

"I can't go," he replied indifferently. "I have something else to do. Besides, it would cost too much. We shall have to be economical now that you're going to be on half-salary."

The next morning Jules left the hotel at eleven o'clock, saying that he shouldn't be back for luncheon. He did not explain where he was going, and Blanche did not question him. She busied herself with Jeanne, and this distracted her till Jeanne fell sound asleep. Then she became a prey to her old melancholy, and for an hour she walked up and down the room, to the bewilderment of Madeleine, who could not understand what the matter was.

"Is Madame suffering with the pain in her back?" Madeleine asked at last.

No, Madame was not suffering. She had not been troubled by the pain for several days; she hoped it would leave her for good now that she had stopped taking the plunge.

"Ah, God be praised that you do that no longer!" Madeleine cried, lifting her withered hands to heaven and rolling her eyes. "It was too terrible. Since that first night in Paris, when I went with you and Monsieur Jules, I never dared to look. It was affreux!"

"But Jules loved it," said Blanche, throwing herself into a chair beside the old woman.

Ah, yes, Madeleine acknowledged. He used to rave about it in the little flat in the rue de Lisbonne. Once Madeleine heard him talking in his sleep about the circus and the wonderful dive; he always slept with his door wide-open, and she often heard him talking away like one wide-awake. He had told her that it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, and no other woman in the world would have dared to do it. Madeleine was always delighted to have a chance to talk about Jules, and she babbled on, never suspecting that her words were making Blanche suffer.

"Do you think," Blanche said at last, "do you think he would have loved me if I hadn't done that—if I hadn't done that plunge, I mean—in the Circus?"

Madeleine glanced at her quickly; she was unable to grasp the significance of the question. "But he did see you in the Circus," she replied. "If he hadn't seen you there, chÉrie, he wouldn't have seen you at all."

"Yes, yes, that's true." Blanche realized that it would be useless to try to explain what she meant. Then, after a moment, she added, "And now that I've given up the dive,—perhaps I shall never be able to do it again; the Doctor said I might not,—now that I've given it up, do you think he'll love me just the same?"

Madeleine's faded eyes turned to Blanche and examined her closely. "If he'll love you just the same?" she repeated. "What has put such a strange idea into your head, child? Of course he'll love you just the same."

Then Madeleine was launched on a flood of eulogy. Jules was so good, so faithful, so affectionate. There was not another like him. He had always been so tender with his mother; and oh, how his poor mother had worshipped him! Madeleine's praises had the effect of soothing Blanche for a time; they also made her ashamed of the half-conscious suspicion which had arisen in her mind, and which she would not have dared to formulate even to herself. She only permitted herself to acknowledge that his present manner toward her was different from his old one. She was also disturbed by his refusal for the past three Sundays to go to church with her.

The next afternoon Jules came home in a rage. "I've been down to see Marshall," he said. "What do you suppose the old fool's gone and done? He had the door of your dressing-room opened this morning and all your things turned out into Miss Van Pelt's old room,—the little hole next door, you know. It's hardly big enough to breathe in. He said you weren't the star any longer, and he must give the room to Miss King. It seems she's a kicker and he's afraid of a row."

Blanche had nothing to say in reply; this seemed to her only another indignity added to those she had already suffered. The worst was to come in the evening, when her rival would share the applause that used to be hers. A few moments later she asked,—

"Was she there—that woman?"

"No; she hasn't appeared yet, and Marshall was a little nervous. She was to come up from Manchester in a train that got in during the afternoon."

"But suppose she doesn't come."

"Oh, she'll come fast enough. Marshall had a telegram saying she'd started. Her big iron tub arrived this morning. They were putting it in the ground and laying the pipes for the water when I was there. They keep it covered till her act begins."

"What does she do besides her jump?"

"Oh, Marshall says she goes through a lot of antics, stays under the water till she nearly dies of suffocation, and cooks a meal, and—"

"Under water?" Blanche gasped.

"No, of course not, you ninny," Jules cried impatiently. His wife's simplicity had long before ceased to amuse him. "She does it while she's floating. Then one of the circus boys falls into the tank, and she shows how she used to rescue people out in California."

"Then she's an American."

"She's lived in America all her life, but her father was an Englishman, and she was born in England. Her father kept a swimming school out in San Francisco; that's how she got into the business. They say she's got a lot of medals for saving lives."

As Jules walked into the next room to change his clothes for the evening, he said to himself that his wife was growing very stupid and tiresome.

Blanche sat alone for a few moments, feeling cold and forlorn. She could not keep from thinking and wondering about that woman; she was anxious and yet afraid to see her. She could not account for the dislike and terror with which the mere thought of the woman inspired her. She had never before regarded the other performers in the circus as her rivals; so, for the first time in her life, she knew the bitterness of jealousy.

Before preparing for the evening she went into the nursery, and for several moments sat beside the cradle where Jeanne was peacefully sleeping, her little face rosy with health. The poor child, she thought, could never know the sacrifice she had made for her. She was glad she had made it; she had done her duty; but it was hard, it was so hard! Then she bent over and kissed Jeanne on the cheek; the child drew her head away, and buried her face impatiently in the pillow. Blanche turned her gently in the crib, adjusted the lace covering, and stole out of the room.

Jules met her as she was closing the door softly behind her. "What have you been doing in there?" he cried petulantly. "Why can't you let Jeanne alone when she's asleep? Every time she takes a nap you go in and wake her up. No wonder—"

"I haven't waked her," Blanche replied apologetically. "I only went in to see if she needed anything, and I sat beside her a moment."

"Well, you'll spoil her if you keep on. From the way you act one would imagine that Jeanne was the only creature in the world worth thinking about!"

They both took their places at the table which Madeleine had prepared, and proceeded silently with their dinner. Madeleine, who hovered about them, wondered what the matter was; she had never seen Monsieur Jules like this before; he usually had a great deal to say. When she had left the room for a few minutes, Jules looked up from his plate.

"I've been wondering whether we ought to keep Madeleine or not. She's a great expense. We could get along just as well without her. The garÇon could serve our meals. We have to pay for the service whether we get it or not."

When he had spoken he was startled by the look in his wife's face. Not keep Madeleine! The mere thought of parting with the old woman, whom she had come to regard almost as a second mother, shocked her so much that for a moment she could not formulate a reply.

"But we couldn't get along without her!" she said. "Think of all she does for me and for Jeanne!"

"Oh, Jeanne! It's always Jeanne, Jeanne. I'm sick of hearing her name. If Jeanne hadn't been born we shouldn't be in the pretty box we're in now, and you'd be going on with your work like a sensible woman. I tell you we must economize. We're under heavy expenses here, and we're going to lose a lot of money by this imaginary sickness of yours."

"I can't let Madeleine go," Blanche replied. "I should die without her. I should die of loneliness. And she loves you so, as much as if you were her son, and she loved your mother. She has often talked to me about her. I can't, I can't let her go. I'd rather—"

"Very well, then. Don't say anything more about it. We'll have to economize in some other way. Here she comes now. So keep quiet, or she'll want to find out what we've been talking about."