A versatile dramatic poet is grim Destiny, making with equal facility tragedy, farce, burletta, masque or mystery. The world is his inn, and, like the wandering master of interludes, he sets up his stage in the court-yard, beneath the windows of mortals, takes out his figures and evolves charming comedies, stirring melodramas, spirited harlequinades and moving divertissement. But it is in tragedy his constructive ability is especially apparent, and his characters, tripping along unsuspectingly in the sunny byways, are suddenly confronted by the terrifying mask and realize life is not all pleasant pastime and that the Greek philosophy of retribution is nature’s law, preserving the unities. When the time comes, the Master of events, adjusting them in prescribed lines, reaches by stern obligation the avoidless conclusion.

Consulting no law but his own will, the Marquis de Ligne had lived as though he were the autocrat of fate itself instead of one of its servants, and therefore was surprised when the venerable playwright prepared 324 the unexpected dÉnouement. In pursuance of this end, it was decreed by the imperious and incontrovertible dramatist of the human family that this crabbed, vicious, antiquated marionette should wend his way to the St. Charles on a particular evening. Since the day at the races, the eccentric nobleman had been ill and confined to his room, but now he was beginning to hobble around, and, immediately with returning strength, sought diversion.

“FranÇois,” he said, “what is there at the theater to-night?”

“Comic opera, my lord?”

The marquis made a grimace. “Comic opera outside of Paris!” he exclaimed, with a shrug of the shoulders.

“A new actress makes her dÉbut at the St. Charles.”

“Let it be the dÉbut, then! Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And, by the way, FranÇois, did you see anything of a large envelope, a buff-colored envelope, I thought I left in my secretary?”

“No, my lord.” But FranÇois became just a shade paler.

“It is strange,” said the marquis, half to himself, “what could have become of it! I destroyed other papers, but not that. You are sure, FranÇois, you did not steal it?”

By this time the servant’s knees began to tremble, 325 and, had the marquis’ eyesight been better, he could not have failed to detect the other’s agitation. But the valet assumed a bold front, as he asked:

“Why should I have stolen it?”

“True, why?” grumbled the marquis. “It would be of no service to you. No; you didn’t take it. I believe you honest––in this case!”

“Thank you, my lord!”

“After all, what does it matter?” muttered the nobleman to himself. “What’s in a good name to-day––with traitors within and traitors without? ’Tis love’s labor lost to have protected it! We’ve fostered a military nest of traitors. The scorpions will be faithful to nothing but their own ends. They’ll fight for any master.”

Recalled to his purpose of attending the play by FranÇois’ bringing from the wardrobe sundry articles of attire, the marquis underwent an elaborate toilet, recovering his good humor as this complicated operation proceeded. Indeed, by the time it had reached a triumphant end and the valet set the marquis before a mirror, the latter had forgotten his dissatisfaction at the government in his pleasure with himself.

“Too much excitement is dangerous, is it?” he mumbled. “I am afraid there will be none at all. A stage-struck young woman; a doll-like face, probably; a milk-and-water performance! Now, in the old days actors were artists. Yes, artists!” he repeated, as though he had struck a chord that vibrated in his memory.

Arriving at the theater, he was surprised at the scene of animation; the line of carriages; the crowd about the doors and in the entrance hall! Evidently the city eagerly sought novelty, and Barnes’ company, offering new diversion after many weeks of opera, drew a fair proportion of pleasure-seekers to the portals of the drama. The noise of rattling wheels and the banging of carriage doors; the aspect of many fair ladies, irreproachably gowned; the confusion of voices from venders hovering near the gallery entrance––imparted a cosmopolitan atmosphere to the surroundings.

“You’d think some well-known player was going to appear, FranÇois!” grumbled the marquis, as he thrust his head out of his carriage. “Looks like a theater off the Strand! And there’s an orange-girl! A dusky Peggy!”

The vehicle of the nobleman drew up before the brilliantly-lighted entrance. Mincingly, the marquis dismounted, assisted by the valet; within he was met by a loge director who, with the airs of a Chesterfield, bowed the people in and out.

“Your ticket, sir!” said this courteous individual, scraping unusually low.

The marquis waved his hand toward his man, and FranÇois produced the bits of pasteboard. Escorted to his box, the nobleman settled himself in an easy chair, after which he stared impudently and inquisitively around him.

And what a heterogeneous assemblage it was; of 327 how many nationalities made up; gay bachelors, representatives of the western trade and eastern manufacturers; a fair sprinkling of the military element, seeking amusement before departing for the front, their brass buttons and striking new uniforms a grim reminder of the conflict waging between the United States and Mexico; cotton brokers, banking agents, sugar, tobacco and flour dealers; some evidently English with their rosy complexions, and others French by their gesticulations! And among the women, dashing belles from Saratoga, proud beauties from Louisville, “milliner-martyred” daughters of interior planters, and handsome creole matrons, in black gowns that set off their white shoulders!

In this stately assemblage––to particularize for a moment!––was seated the (erstwhile!) saintly Madame Etalage, still proud in her bearing, although white as an angel, and by her side, her carpet knight, an extravagant, preposterous fop. A few seats in front of her prattled the lovely ingenue, little Fantoccini, a biting libeller of other actresses, with her pitiless tongue. To her left was a shaggy-looking gentleman, the Addison of New Orleans’ letters, a most tolerant critic, who never spoke to a woman if he could avoid doing so, but who, from his philosophical stool, viewed the sex with a conviction it could do no wrong; a judgment in perspective, as it were!

The marquis paid little attention to the men; it was the feminine portion of the audience that interested him, and he regarded it with a gloating leer, the 328 expression of a senile satyr. Albeit a little on the seamy side of life, his rank and wealth were such that he himself attracted a good deal of attention, matronly eyes being turned in his direction with not unkindly purport. The marquis perceived the stir his presence occasioned and was not at all displeased; on the contrary, his manner denoted gratification, smiling and smirking from bud to blossom and from blossom to bud!

How fascinating it was to revel in the sight of so much youth and beauty from the brink of the grave whereon he stood; how young it made him feel again! He rubbed his withered hands together in childish delight, while he contemplated the lively charms of Fantoccini or devoted himself to the no less diverting scrutiny of certain other dark-haired ladies.

While occupied in this agreeable pastime the nobleman became dimly conscious the debutante had appeared and was greeted with the moderate applause of an audience that is reserving its opinion. “Gad,” said one of the dandies who was keenly observing the nobleman, “it’s fashionable to look at the people and not at the actors!” And he straightway stared at the boxes, assuming a lackadaisical, languishing air. Having taken note of his surroundings to his satisfaction, the marquis at length condescended to turn his eye-glass deliberately and quizzically to the stage. His sight was not the best, and he gazed for some time before discerning a graceful figure and a pure, oval face, with dark hair and eyes.

“Humph, not a bad stage presence!” he thought. “Probably plenty of beauty, with a paucity of talent! That’s the way nowadays. The voice––why, where have I heard it before? A beautiful voice! What melody, what power, what richness! And the face––” Here he wiped the moisture from his glasses––“if the face is equal to the voice, she has an unusual combination in an artist.”

Again he elevated the glass. Suddenly his attenuated frame straightened, his hand shook violently and, the glasses fell from his nerveless fingers.

“Impossible!” he murmured. But the melody of those tones continued to fall upon his ears like a voice from the past.

When the curtain went down on the first act there was a storm of applause. In New Orleans nothing was done by halves, and Constance, as Adrienne Lecouvreur, radiant in youth and the knowledge of success, was called out several times. The creoles made a vigorous demonstration; the Americans were as pleased in their less impulsive way; and in the loges all the lattices were pushed up, “a compliment to any player,” said Straws. To the marquis, the ladies in the loges were only reminiscent of the fashionable dames, with bare shoulders and glittering jewels, in the side boxes of old Drury Lane, leaning from their high tribunals to applaud the Adrienne of twenty years ago!

He did not sit in a theater in New Orleans now, but in London town, with a woman by his side who bent 330 beneath the storm of words she knew were directed at her. As in a dream he lingered, plunged in thought, with no longer the cynical, carping expression on his face as he looked at the stage, but awed and wonder-stricken, transported to another scene through the lapse of years that folded their shadowy wings and made the past to-day. Two vivid pictures floated before him as though they belonged to the present: Adrienne, bright, smiling and happy, as she rushed into the green room, with the plaudits of the multitude heard outside; Adrienne, in her last moments, betrayed to death!

They were applauding now, or was it but the mocking echo of the past? The curtain had descended, but went up again, and the actress stood with flowers showered around her. Save that she was in the springtime of life, while the other had entered summer’s season; that her art was tender and romantic, rather than overwhelming and tragic, she was the counterpart of the actress he had deserted in London; a faithful prototype, bearing the mother’s eyes, brow and features; a moving, living picture of the dead, as though the grave had rolled back its stone and she had stepped forth, young once more, trusting and innocent.

The musical bell rang in the wine room, where the worshipers of Bacchus were assembled, the signal that the drop would rise again in five minutes. At the bar the imbibers were passing judgment.

“What elegance, deah boy! But cold––give me Fantoccini!” cried the carpet knight.

“Fantoccini’s a doll to her!” retorted the worldly young spark addressed.

“A wicked French doll, then! What do you think?” Turning to the local Addison.

“Sir, she ‘snatches a grace beyond the reach of art’!” replied that worthy.

“You ask for a criticism, and he answers in poetry!” retorted the first speaker.

“’Tis only the expression of the audience!” interposed another voice.

“Oh, of course, Mr. Mauville, if you, too, take her part, that is the end of it!”

The land baron’s smile revealed withering contempt, as with eyes bright with suppressed excitement, and his face unusually sallow, he joined the group.

“The end of it!” he repeated, fixing his glance upon the captious dandy. “The beginning, you mean! The beginning of her triumphs!”

“Oh, have your own way!” answered the disconcerted critic.

Mauville deliberately turned his back. “And such dunces sit in judgment!” he muttered to the scholar.

“Curse me, Mauville’s in a temper to-night!” said the spark in a low voice. “Been drinking, I reckon! But it’s time for the next act!”

Punches and juleps were hastily disposed of, and the imbibers quickly sought their places. This sudden influx, with its accompanying laughter and chattering, 332 aroused the marquis from his lethargy. He started and looked around him in bewilderment. The noise and the light conversation, however, soon recalled his mind to a sense of his surroundings, and he endeavored to recover his self-possession.

Could it be possible it was but a likeness his imagination had converted into such vivid resemblance? A sudden thought seized him and he looked around toward the door of the box.

“FranÇois!” he called, and the valet, who had been waiting his master’s pleasure without, immediately appeared.

“Sit down, FranÇois!” commanded the marquis. “I am not feeling well. I may conclude to leave soon, and may need your arm.”

The servant obeyed, and the nobleman, under pretense of finding more air near the door, drew back his chair, where he could furtively watch his man’s face. The orchestra ceased; the curtain rose, and the valet gazed mechanically at the stage. In his way, FranÇois was as blasÉ as his master, only, of course, he understood his position too well to reveal that lassitude and ennui, the expression of which was the particular privilege of his betters. He had seen many great actresses and heard many peerless singers; he had delved after his fashion into sundry problems, and had earned as great a right as any of the nobility to satiety and defatigation in his old age, but unfortunately he was born in a class which may feel but not reveal, and mask alike content and discontent.

Again those tones floated out from the past; musical, soft! The marquis trembled. Did not the man notice? No; he was still looking gravely before him. Dolt; did he not remember? Could he not recall the times beyond number when he had heard that voice; in the ivy-covered cottage; in the garden of English roses?

Suddenly the valet uttered an exclamation; the stolid aspect of his face gave way to an obvious thrill of interest.

“My lord!” he cried.

“An excellent actress, FranÇois; an excellent actress!” said the marquis, rising. “Is that my coat? Get it for me. What are you standing there for? Your arm! Don’t you see I am waiting?”

Overwrought and excitable, he did not dare remain for the latter portion of the drama; better leave before the last act, he told himself, and, dazed by the reappearance of that vision, the old man fairly staggered from the box.

The curtain fell for the last time, and Barnes, with exultation, stood watching in the wings. She had triumphed, his little girl; she had won the great, generous heart of New Orleans. He clapped his hands furiously, joining in the evidences of approval, and, when the ovation finally ceased and she approached, the old manager was so overcome he had not a word to say. She looked at him questioningly, and he who had always been her instructor folded her fondly to his breast.

“I owe it all to you,” she whispered.

“Pooh!” he answered. “You stole fire from heaven. I am but a theatrical, bombastic, barnstorming Thespian.”

“Would you spoil me?” she interrupted, tenderly.

“You are your mother over again, my dear! If she were only here now! But where is Saint-Prosper? He has not yet congratulated you? He, our good genius, whose generosity has made all this possible!” And Barnes half-turned, when she placed a detaining hand on his arm.

“No, no!”

“Why, my dear, have you and he––”

“Is it not enough that you are pleased?” replied Constance, hastily, with a glance so shining he forgot all further remonstrances.

“Pleased!” exclaimed Barnes. “Why, I feel as gay as Momus! But we’ll sing Te Deum later at the festive board. Go now and get ready!”