uvreur's illness had come from poison
administered by the Duchesse de Bouillon, out of jealousy of Count
Saxe. It is true that Madame de Bouillon would no doubt have poisoned
anybody whom she thought stood between her and Count Saxe; and it is
also true that the young Abbe de Bouret confided something concerning
Madame de Bouillon's schemes to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, one night, in
the gardens of the Luxembourg. The Abbe de Bouret was quickly silenced
by a _lettre de cachet_ and the Bastille by the powerful De Bouillon
family--but beyond that, I think no one knows. The public however, was
ready to believe anything against Madame de Bouillon in its passion
of regret over losing Adrienne Lecouvreur; and Madame de Bouillon's
brazen defiance of this sentiment in coming to the theater to witness
this last farewell of Adrienne's to the public which had loved her so
well, was bitterly resented.

In the midst of an oppressive silence, one minute before the curtain
rose, Madame de Bouillon appeared in her box. She was quite alone. As
she seated herself, she displayed upon her beautiful white arm, a
miniature of Count Saxe, set in diamonds. I dare say she stole it. She
sat there, smiling and unconcerned, with every eye in the theater
turned on her with hatred. But then sounded the three knocks which
herald the rising of the curtain, and the play began.

When the time came for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur to appear and the first
glimpse of her as Phedre in her classic garb was seen, a frantic roar
of applause went up--men shouting, women weeping their welcome. It was
plain that she was very ill, but likewise every human soul in that
house knew that she would go through her part. I will not speak of her
acting that night: how she brought us to tears, and plunged us into
despair and pity and horror at her will. But there was a climax, the
essence of all feeling when she advanced to the front of the stage,
and, fixing her beautiful, despairing eyes on Madame de Bouillon,
repeated those immortal lines in a voice that might have been that of
an accusing angel.

Je sais mes perfides,
OEnone, et ne suis point de ces femmes hardies,
Qui, goutant dans le crime une tranquille paix,
Ont su se faire un front qui ne rougit jamais!

How shall I describe what followed? The pity, fury, and despair that
filled all hearts; the cries, the maledictions directed toward Madame
de Bouillon; the