It was in 1870, when war had just been declared.

MacMahon had received orders to cross the frontier, and strike a decided blow against the combined armies of North and South Germany.

In Paris, as indeed throughout the whole of France, everyone was in a state of feverish anxiety; but in the gay capital, the Parisians endeavoured to make the days of suspense pass more quickly by fÉting the expected victory.

One could hear the clinking of glasses at the out-door restaurants, the music of the cafÉs-chantants, and the carriages filed incessantly along the broad avenue of the Champs ElysÉes.

The theatres, too, were well patronized, particularly one on the Boulevards a certain evening when Mlle. Jeanne de Bolney was to make her dÉbut.

The papers had foretold a most brilliant success for the beautiful young actress, who was so marvellously gifted, and who would no doubt become the star of the season. She had chosen for her dÉbut "La Dame aux CamÉlias," which was at that time in the height of its popularity, and the author himself had said that the rÔle of Marguerite might have been written for this talented young actress, so admirably did it suit her in every respect. From the very first act it was quite evident that her beauty and her talent had not been overrated.

The sight of her even had won all hearts. A faultless figure, a delicate, refined face, with lips which were at once proud and tender, eyes of deep blue with the most frank expression, a perfectly shaped head, and a carriage which would have done honour to any queen.

At the sight of this exquisite creature a murmur of approbation ran through the house and interrupted, for a few seconds, the dialogue.

At the end of each scene the ovations increased, and after the second act there was a perfect explosion of applause. Among those who were most delighted at Jeanne's triumph was a young man who belonged to the theatre—Louis Belcourt. It was through his influence that she had succeeded in making her dÉbut, for the manager of this theatre always preferred pupils from the Conservatoire.

Louis had known and loved Jeanne from boyhood, and there was something infinitely noble and touching in this devoted yet hopeless love. It was, indeed, of a kind rarely seen in any man, for it had not blinded him, and he could see and admire the good qualities of his rival—the man to whom Jeanne had given all her love.

It had been very romantic, the engagement of the beautiful young actress. A short time before, at the Longchamps races, she had been glancing at the grand stand, where Napoleon III. and the ladies of the Court were seated, when suddenly she became aware of two handsome dark eyes fixed upon her. She looked away, but, as though fascinated, a few minutes later she glanced again at the place behind the Court ladies, and she saw a military-looking man, whose face was bronzed by the southern sun, and who had risen from his seat and was gazing earnestly at her, as though he too were fascinated by some spell.

Not long after, Roger de Morfeuille, officer in the Emperor's regiment, had discovered who Jeanne was. It was an extraordinary engagement; no word of the future had been spoken between them. Roger knew that he would have to leave, for war had been declared, and that until the result of that war should be known he could promise nothing. The subject of the future was not even broached between them. Jeanne knew only that their path in life must be together: she felt that it must be so, and there was no need for words. Only when the terrible parting came, when Roger had to leave to join his regiment, he slipped a ring he always wore on to her finger and took from hers one for himself, and still no words were spoken as to the future.

After the second act of the "Dame aux CamÉlias," when the curtain had been lowered for the sixth time, and Jeanne had for the sixth time answered to the enthusiastic recalls, she went slowly up to her room. She felt overwhelmed: perhaps it was the excess of happiness at her good fortune which weighed on her like this. Roger knew that it was the day of her dÉbut; she felt certain that, even amid the smoke of the battlefield, he would not forget it. She hardly dared own it even to herself, but all day she had expected some little souvenir from him, some sign or word of sympathy; for was she not too fighting a battle, one of those battles which decided the life of individuals just as much as his did that of nations? On opening her dressing-room door a flash of mingled triumph, love, and pride came over her as she caught sight of a telegram on her table.

She closed her door quickly, not noticing that Louis Belcourt was following her quietly along the corridor.

Suddenly, through the thick doors and curtains, in the silence of the empty corridor, Belcourt heard a fearful cry. It was so wild and passionate that a shiver ran through him. He opened the door and was just in time to catch Jeanne in his arms. She was livid with horror, and was clutching the fatal telegram in her hands.

Just as he was wondering what to do for the best, Jeanne's pallor gave way to a rush of colour to her cheeks. She read the telegram to him: "We have been defeated at Woerth. They are taking me to a house near by. Amputation probable. Pray for me. My love, darling.—Roger." Belcourt glanced at the telegram and saw that it was unintelligible, but a kind of alphabet on the table showed him that it had been written by signs agreed upon.

He stood as though thunderstruck. Suddenly Jeanne put on a hat and threw a long brown cloak over her stage dress.

"What are you going to do?" he exclaimed.

"I am going to Roger!"

"But, in Heaven's name, Jeanne, stay a little while. The curtain will be going up. Think what you are doing. You will be ruined—you will spoil your whole life. Wait till to-morrow!"

"Listen," said Jeanne, in a clear, decided tone. "It is now a quarter to ten. I know there is a train from the Gare de l'Est at eleven, for I have sent my letters by a friend of Roger's who is going by it. If you prevent my going by that train, you see this dagger; well, I will kill myself with it!"

Louis stepped back, dazed and horror-struck. Jeanne opened the door, went quickly out by a back door, and Louis followed her, watched her hail a cab, and drive away.

When Belcourt re-entered the theatre he found everyone behind the scenes in a terrible state of excitement.

Mlle de Bolney could not be found. The house was impatient, and the manager desperate. He was sending for the police that she might be found and arrested. Suddenly Belcourt, at the idea of the possible fatal consequences of Jeanne's flight, determined on a bold move.

He stepped up to one of his friends who had been taking part in the play, whispered to him, and appeared to be begging him to consent to what he asked.

Finally the friend yielded, opened the door and walked towards the stage. Then Belcourt, pushing away the director and stage manager who attempted to stop him, gave the signal to lift the curtain, and appeared himself before the house. A deep silence ensued.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Belcourt, "Mlle. de Bolney has received a telegram announcing that there has been a disaster on the German frontier and our army has sustained a defeat. She is overwhelmed by the news, and we must ask you to have patience until she feels able to continue her rÔle."

A dismal silence followed these words. Belcourt's friend now stepped forward and executed the order he had received:—

"We, too, are surely as good patriots as Mademoiselle de Bolney! Surely the play ought not to be finished before a French audience, who have just heard that our army is defeated!"

Cries of "Bravo!" were heard, and, unanimously, the whole house rose and prepared to leave the theatre.

Belcourt had saved the honour of Jeanne and of the theatre.

The rumour of the defeat of Reichshoffen, which the Government was keeping secret, was soon spread abroad in Paris by the spectators who had heard it from Belcourt, and the news caused a fearful calm in the gay capital.

Belcourt had been congratulated by all the authorities of the theatre on his happy idea, but just as he was preparing to leave the theatre that same night he was seized by a police official and conducted to the Mazas prison on a charge of "having divulged a State secret," a crime always punished at least by hard labour, and, in time of war, by death.

For more than a month Belcourt had been in Mazas prison, with nothing to look forward to but dishonour or death. He had been questioned over and over again as to how he had discovered the secret, but in vain; nothing could induce him to give any details, for he did not know whether Jeanne would forgive him for having said so much as he had. The next day sentence was to be passed upon him.

Successive defeats had embittered the minds of his judges, and it was pretty sure that he had little chance of getting off without paying the full penalty of his crime. Belcourt was thinking sadly of his hopeless love for Jeanne, which had caused him to act as he had done in order to save her, when suddenly the door of his cell opened and the porter announced: "Madame the Countess de Morfeuille." It was Jeanne herself, dressed in the deepest mourning.

Her beautiful hair had some silvery threads, her face was cold and severe as marble, her beautiful mouth was rigid, her eyes seemed to be gazing at some invisible object, and she had a deathly pallor—such as one sees on the faces of those who have received some mortal wound.

It was pathetic to see so fair and so young a girl in such hopeless despair, and Belcourt was deeply touched by it.

"You are free, Louis," she said, gently but sadly. "The Empress herself has asked for your release. Thank you so much, my friend, for all you did for me. I came directly I heard of your imprisonment. My husband had only just been brought home and buried at Morfeuille."

Very soon after, Jeanne returned to her husband's stately home, that she might visit daily the tomb of him she had so dearly loved, and who had married her on his death bed.

When Louis had tried to console her and gently hinted that she was too young to go through the rest of her life alone, she had answered, decidedly:—

"Do not ever speak to me of anyone else. I will live and die the widow of Roger, and will certainly never be anyone else's wife."

It was thus that a great artiste was lost to the French stage, but the memory of that dÉbut will never be lost to any of those who witnessed it.