iplicity of gifts the fellow had, and his dishonesty made each and
all of no avail! But in this young girl whom he called Mademoiselle
Adrienne, he had an actress worthy of better work than even he could
do.

The part of _Mariamne_--Jacques Haret's _Mariamne_--was a very comic
one, especially at the last, which was a burlesque on _Mariamne's_
parting from _Herod_. Up to that point, the young actress played with
the true spirit of comedy. Her audience shouted with laughter. Even
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur laughed as I have never known her to before or
since. Monsieur Voltaire, however, sat grave and thoughtful, his chin
in his hand. I, too, was serious, and felt little inclination to laugh
in spite of the drollness of the young girl's acting. I saw at the
first glance she was of a grade entirely different from the cobbler's
boy and the other children, and I was troubled at seeing her in that
company. Such was the effect produced on me by the first sight I had
of Francezka Capello--for it was she and no other.

When she came to the last of all--the burlesque parting--she suddenly
transposed it into the key of tragedy. She changed the words into
those of Monsieur Voltaire's _Mariamne_, which she spoke with vast
force and pathos and passion. She laid her hand on the shoulder of the
cobbler's boy, with a gesture so full of love and longing and delicacy
and despair, that the boy, seeing a mystery, but not understanding it,
was dazed, and forgot his part, which was to seize her around the
waist and whirl her off her feet. The laughter had suddenly
subsided--the audience, like the boy, was stunned and confused and
touched. Francezka, then, with a cry of despair that rang through the
still, soft May evening, thrust the cobbler's boy away and leaned
sobbing against the cloth wall of the theater; and the people, after a
full minute of delighted amazement, broke into thunders of applause.

Mademoiselle Lecouvreur and Monsieur Voltaire led the hand clapping.
The little actress, perfect mistress of herself, turned toward the
bench where Mademoiselle Lecouvreur and Monsieur Voltaire sat. Her
countenance had changed as if by magic--she showed a mouthful of
beautiful teeth in a joyous smile. Then, the exigency of the play
requiring her to turn again, instantly she resumed her touching and
tragic air, and picking up her part, carried it through triumphantly.
Her fellow actor, the cobbler's boy, was disconcerted by the
miraculous transfor