  By eight o'clock the house was well filled. The signboard bearing the legend, "Standing Room Only" was put out in front to catch a few more. It was such an audience as would make any manager's heart rejoice. The curtain rose promptly on the first act. To say the act went off tamely would be simply admitting the truth. Camille was not only uncertain in her lines, but she was suffering from a bad attack of stage fright. Were it not for extraordinary exertions on the part of the principal members of the company—a confidence acquired of long experience—the star of the evening would have twinkled out of existence and "Camille" would have been presented in one act instead of five. The unfortunate "angel" realized for the first time in her life, possibly, that the calling she had selected to adopt was not all her fancy had painted it. The so-called coaching and training she had paid for proved of little or no practical value. She was Camille only in costume—if in that; the Camille of the dressmaker—nothing more. The audience, moreover, were not slow in recognizing this fact also. That day has gone by, apparently, when tyros may sally forth from the city and win country audiences with fine dresses, pretty faces, cheek, and inexperience. The theatre-going public knows the trick. The days of such barn-storming are passing away. Mr. Fogg, who was the Armand, did not make a profound impression. The part suited him like an ill-fitted garment, and he felt it. The realization of that fact took all the vim out of him. If the real truth was known, he, no doubt, wished himself back in his little second-story back in the big city, gossiping of what he might, but could not, do if he had the chance. Handy was cast for the part of the Count de Varville. He was not great in the character, but he could wrestle with it. Was there a role in the whole range of the English drama he would decline to take a fall out of if circumstances demanded? "Say, you'll have to throw more ginger into the part, old fellow," said Handy, as the hero of the carmine blouse of benefit memory walked across the stage, looking very disconsolate after the first act. Neither he nor the star received the slightest applause during their scenes. "Wait until the fourth act, the great act of the piece," replied Fogg, "and I'll fetch 'em. You just watch me." "All ready for the second act," cried out the call-boy. A few seconds later the curtain went up and the play proceeded. Nothing of particular moment transpired during the act. The audience sat through it as tamely as if listening to a funeral sermon. Camille was painfully tame; Armand as harmless a lover as any respectable parent could desire. The remainder of the cast, influenced, no doubt, by the shortcomings of the principals, became listless and merely walked through their parts as they spoke their lines. At the close of the act a number of people left the house. They evidently had had enough and did not care for more. The "angel" also had had enough of "Camille," and wished the whole thing was over. Fogg also had had enough of Armand, and mentally avowed that never again would he undertake a stage lover to an "angel" without experience. In passing, it may be added that an experienced "angel" would not accept Fogg for a Claude at any price. Handy had enough of both of them, with something to spare. In desperation he even expressed regret he did not have a hack at Armand himself and infuse some life into it. If he had there would have been fun, for Handy's lovers were fearfully and wonderfully made. The third act passed pretty much as the two preceding acts, only more so, with fewer people in the house to see it. A number of noticeable yawns evidenced the frame of mind of those who remained. The curtain went up on the fourth act—that in which Fogg was going to do something. He had in the meantime been bracing up. When he made his entry and spoke, his manner of speech was somewhat thick, but his acting was more energetic. Fogg never could take anything stimulating without its going to his head, and as his brain exercised a peculiar influence over other members of his body, they all contributed their aid to illustrating his actual condition. He at length appeared to wake up to the actualities of the situation. So had Camille, so had the Count de Varville, and so had the audience—particularly the audience. Fogg strenuously warmed up. The first genuine manifestation on the part of the audience occurred when Armand, rising from the card-table and making a stage crossing, caught his foot in a hole in the carpet, caromed against the card-table, upset it, and measured his length on the boards. The audience burst into laughter. Audiences really enjoy such contretemps, cruel as such accidents or mishaps may be to the luckless player. Fogg arose and, wisely affecting not to notice the storm in front of the footlights, continued the scene. At length the moment was reached for him to shower gold on Camille, and by such insult endeavor to provoke a quarrel with de Varville. Hastily and clumsily drawing forth the property purse or bag of coin which Smith had prepared, he burst the fastening and showered the contents on the unfortunate Camille. Lo and behold! the property coin proved to be medium-sized brass buttons with long shanks. A far-sighted humorist among the audience caught sight of them and, with utter disregard of the dramatic situation and ignoring the consequences of his interference, unloosed his tongue and in a peculiar treble voice called out: "Button, button; who has the button?" The audience caught the ill-timed humor of the situation, Camille nearly collapsed, and the people on the stage with considerable difficulty restrained themselves from taking part in the prevailing hilarity. It was some time before the slightest semblance of order could be restored in front. Eventually, when something like quiet was restored, the act was played to a finish, in a somewhat fitful and highly nervous manner. Behind the curtain there was a very lively condition of things. Armand was furious; Camille was engaged in giving a practical demonstration of hysterical stunts. She declared she would not go on any more. She was going to quit right there and then. It required all of Handy's persuasive eloquence to prevail on her to finish the performance. Camille seemed to be firm in her resolve. "'Tis only the dying scene," urged Handy. "It's dead easy, and the merit of it is that it is the best act of all for you. Only for those unfortunate buttons everything would have gone off all serene. We were getting into the spirit of the thing when the mishap broke everything all up. I'll kill that blithering property man when I lay hands on him." Fogg had already started on the warpath after Smith, but Smith, having an intuitive knowledge that a meeting between himself and his leading man would result in strained relations, and not doubting for an instant that discretion is the better part of valor, beat a hasty retreat from the theatre, costumed and made up as he was, not even remaining long enough to wash the make-up from his face. It was debatable for several minutes whether the "angel" would finish Camille or some obliging member of the company would undertake the job. None of the ladies appeared ambitious to shuffle off the mortal coil of the Lady of the Camellias. Finally, after a successful siege of coaxing, pleading, imploring, and entreating on the part of Handy, the "angel" consented. The curtain went up. Camille, under the circumstances, did the best she could in speaking the lines. An occasional titter from the audience conveyed only too plainly the information that the button incident was not yet forgotten. Notwithstanding, poor Camille struggled bravely on. It was uphill work, but she persevered. At length the fateful moment arrived for Armand to make his entrance. No sooner did he set his foot on the stage in view of the audience then again the voice of the serio-comic humorist in front, in the same weird tone, was, it must have been drowned in the laughter of the assemblage. "Ring down the curtain," piteously pleaded Camille in an undertone from her deathbed. Handy stood in the wings, ready for any emergency likely to turn up, and in a very audible prompt whisper replied: "Go on, go on with the scene. Die as fast as you can. Don't give them any fancy dying frills, but croak at once and have done with it." Whether the people in front overheard the manager's imperative prompting or that the echo of "button" was still ringing in their ears, the death scene of Camille was presented as it had never been before—with peals of laughter. Camille made a final effort, and then fell back on the bed. There was something in the realistic manner of the act that caught the quick perception of the audience. The people on the stage also were attracted by it, and they gathered about the fallen star. The curtain was rung down on the double-quick. The poor girl remained motionless in the position she had fallen. The effort had proven too much, the strain too great—she had been completely overcome, had broken down and collapsed. Handy and Fogg later in the night were seated together in a little back room of the hotel. Fogg was crestfallen—Handy thoughtful. Only a slight exchange of conversation passed between them. At length the silence was broken. "Fogg," asked Handy, "do you believe in a hereafter?" "What a singular question." "Never mind about its singularity. Do you?" "Certainly I do." "In heaven, and all that kind of thing?" "Yes." "Then take a friend's advice. Never again undertake the support of an 'angel' until you reach heaven. They have no buttons there." The humor was wasted on Fogg. He was too humiliated to relish any kind of a joke. After lingering a short time, he retired. The veteran remained thoughtful, taking some consolation from his briarwood and a steaming hot Scotch. For some minutes he continued in what for some reason or other is known as a brown study. How long he might have continued in that condition it is not necessary to speculate on. A tap at the window aroused him from his revery. He glanced in the direction from whence the sound came. There he beheld the well-known face of his first lieutenant, Smith. He motioned Handy to come to him. Handy was too comfortable where he was. He bade Smith come right in. Smith shook his head and pantomimed Handy to survey his get-up. The latter recognized the situation, swallowed the contents of his glass, and stepped outside. The meeting was not at first particularly cordial, but when Handy comprehended the predicament in which his friend had placed himself he laughed. "You're a beaut, you are. It's a mighty lucky thing Fogg didn't catch you, let me tell you. If he had, it's dollars to doughnuts there would be a funeral in the Smith family in the near future; and what's more, you wouldn't have a word as to choice of vehicle in which you went to the cemetery. But say, why on earth are you masquerading about the streets in that get-up?" "Oh, cut all that!" replied Smith, "and tell me how I'm going to get my street togs. They are in the dressing-room at the theatre, and I can't go gallivanting through the streets in this rig. Do you want to have me pinched and locked up, eh?" "Didn't you come from there in 'em?" "Sure I came in 'em. I had to. I would have come out without anything, I was so scared of that lunatic Fogg. But, say, you got through with the show all right." "Oh, yes. Oh, yes! We got through with the show all—wrong, but——" "But what?" "The season is closed." "Closed!" repeated Smith anxiously. "You don't mean it?" "Yes, but I do mean it. The game is up. No more 'Camille.' The 'angel' has fallen. She has had all the starring she wants, and starts heavenwards to-morrow on the Pennsylvania limited for the Lord knows where." "An' Fogg—whither goest he?" "He accompanies her as a kind of guardian angel." "An'—an'—a—the—salaries, what about them?" "They remain." "With whom?" asked Smith. "They are all right. The 'angel' does the decent thing, and puts up for the entire week." "An' then——" "Oh, you want to know too much! Maybe I will try and fill in the dates myself. I don't exactly know yet, but for mercy sake, come in with me and run up to my room, wash the grease paint and make-up off your mug, and I will let you have my ulster to cover you while you go back to the theatre and get your clothes." On his return, Smith rejoined his manager and they spent the night together. Next morning Handy was up early, and after a conference with Miss De la Rue and Mr. Fogg he called on the landlord and settled the hotel bill. He then accompanied the "angel" and Fogg to the station and saw them both safely on the train. The lady resolved to abandon all histrionic ambition, and never after sought the fickle fame of the footlights, and Fogg ever since shows an affected contempt for anyone who sees anything to laugh at over the button episode of his extraordinary one-night season with the "angel" Camille. |
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