ons of laughter; and when, with ready wit, she
took off Lafarge, interjecting some of his foolish remarks into the
farcical _Mariamne_, I thought the floor would have come through with
the stamping of feet and pounding of jeweled-headed canes, while the
laughter became a veritable tempest. And Francezka enjoyed it; that
was plain in her kindling eye, and the color that flooded her late
pale cheeks and lips.

Through it all, Gaston Cheverny smiled but little, and his face, which
was the most expressive I ever saw, not excepting Monsieur Voltaire's,
showed pity for this young girl. I felt sure he recognized her.

When the part in the little play came of _Mariamne's_ farewell,
Mademoiselle Capello changed it to the real _Mariamne_, as subtly as
she had done in the afternoon in the garden. Her present audience, far
more intelligent than any she had ever played to, instantly caught the
beauty, the wit, the art, of what she was doing. A deathlike silence
fell when Francezka, in her sweet, penetrating voice, was bidding the
cobbler's boy a last, despairing farewell. The Grand Prieur, leaning
forward, put his hand to his ear--he was slightly deaf--and I felt my
eyes grow hot with tears, when suddenly Mademoiselle Capello caught
Gaston Cheverny's eyes fixed on her. It was as if he had laid a
compelling hand upon her. She stopped, hesitated, and walked a few
steps toward him. Her rosy face grew pale; she opened her mouth, but
was unable to speak a word. Jacques Haret, standing close to her,
gave her the cue once--twice--very audibly. Mademoiselle Capello,
without heeding him, and moving like a sleep-walker, went still
farther toward the edge of the stage where Gaston Cheverny stood--and
then covering her face with her mantle she burst into a passion of
tears and sobbing.

There was a movement of compassion for her; old Peter on the edge of
the crowd was begging,

"For God's sake, gentlemen, let me go to my child--she is my
daughter--I am but a serving-man--" but no one moved to let him
through.

The children on the stage were in confusion--Jacques Haret was in
despair. Mademoiselle Capello, with her face still wrapped in her
mantle, continued her convulsive sobbing. Gaston Cheverny made a lane
with his strong arm through the crowd and called to Peter.

"This way, my man. Come and fetch your daughter."

Peter got through at last, lifted the weeping Francezka down in his
arms, and started for the door with her.

I left t