AT THE BAGATELLE THEATRE.
“Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still,
Is human love the growth of human will?”
When Lady Beranger and her party enter a large stage-box and settle
themselves noiselessly in their seats, the first act of ‘Hearts _versus_
Diamonds’ has begun, and the big bass is booming out a lugubrious
overture to Ferdinand--the deserted lover’s reproaches to his faithless
and diamond-worshipping Lady Yolande.
On the whole Carlton Conway looks superbly handsome and effective, when,
as Ferdinand, he takes up a highly picturesque pose right in the centre
of the stage. His head erect, his chest well thrown out, a little after
Kyrle Bellew; his shirt-front ample; his tail-coat, and waistcoat and
trousers, his patent leather boots, unimpeachable; and a gardenia from
Hooper’s, in Oxford Street, although he can ill-afford the half-a-crown
paid for it, fresh and snowy and fragrant, reposing on his broad breast.
With one white hand uplifted, the forefinger pointing in scorn; the
third finger sparkling with a tiny but pure brilliant (Zai’s gift), he
hurls:
“Oh, cursed hunger of pernicious gold,
What bands of faith can impious lucre hold?”
in a deep, impassioned voice, that fairly electrifies his audience, but
makes very little impression apparently on the Lady Yolande, who has
quite made up her mind to give up love and poverty for a comfortable
mansion in Mayfair and plenty of diamonds and money.
Miss Flora Fitzallan, as the Lady Yolande, is at her best to-night. She
looks, in fact, as if a whole page of “Debrett” was devoted to her
ancestry, thereby proving that we are not what we seem, and often seem
what we are not.
In the palest of blue brocades, heavily embroidered with silver, and a
tuft of pale blue ostrich tips placed jauntily a little on one side of
her head, and a long Court train, edged with the very best imitation
ermine, she looks quite good enough for a leader of Society.
On the finger of scorn being pointed at her, the Lady Yolande laughs
tragically, and with an artistic twirl of her skirt swoops down close to
the foot-lights, and while her glance roves over the _jeunesse dorée_
gathered in the stalls, cries in a contralto voice:
My name is Blue-blood! In the House of Lords
My father sits and has his say;
My mother was a Mistress of the Robes,
Before those awful Tories had their sway!
Thou forgettest, Ferdinand, that sangre azul flows
Through all my veins; that in my face
Not only love, but high ambition glows,
With which, alas! thou never canst keep pace!
Lapped in soft luxury, born in marble halls,
Vassals and serfs to answer to my calls,
I could not brave the humiliating woe
Of in this world coming down so low.
Ferdinand, forgive me! and let me go!
Without my purse full, I should surely pine,
I love good dinners, and I love good wine;
My beauty decked in velvets, satins, lace,
A jewelled diadem to crown my face.
Ferdinand, I leave thee! heart-broken, with a sigh,
But without gold and diamonds I should die!--die!
Upon this confession Ferdinand shows the laceration of his feelings by
striking another attitude, an attitude of giant but picturesque despair.
He folds his arms tightly across his chest, strides heavily towards
her, and wears generally a depressed appearance.
“Oh!” he exclaims, lifting up his fine eyes to the gods in the gallery.
“Lend me, I pray, strength to bear her perfidy.”
As his glance slowly travels earthwards he espies Zai, and starts
slightly, but the sight of her sweet face gives real pathos and
eloquence to his voice as he murmurs tenderly:
“Yolande! Beloved Yolande! Thou knowest not the vulture that gnaws my
heart, or thou would’st pause in thy fiendish work. False Yolande! Thou
hast _never_ known what heart is, but--
“‘I will tell thee what it is to love.
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove,
Where life seems young and like a thing divine.
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine,
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine.
Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss,
And if there’s Heaven on earth--that Heaven is surely this!’”
Carl Conway is really a very fair actor, and his voice is both musical
and _entrainante_, and he spouts these lines with a wonderful passion
and softness that appeal to all the women present, and as he speaks
them, ever and anon his handsome brown eyes rest a second on the
stage-box where poor little Zai sits well back in her corner.
Her eyes fixed on the beloved face, she forgets the existence of anyone
else, her cheeks are flushed with excitement, her heart throbs fast, and
a suspicion of a tear shines on her long lashes. Not a word does she
utter, not a word does she hear; engrossed in this, the first love of
her life, the play itself goes on without her taking in the gist of it.
All she sees is Carl--Carl, with his superb face, and with his eyes full
of the old, old passion as they linger on her and seem loth to turn
away.
The curtain falls and rises twice over, and she thanks Providence that
for once her people leave her alone so that she may gaze her fill. Who
knows when they two will meet again--and how?
The girl’s poor heart grows cold as ice when the _dénouement_ of the
play comes, and Ferdinand, praying for the boon of a last kiss, the Lady
Yolande yields her proud lips to him.
Yields them _con amore_, too, it seems to Zai, as she shrinks back from
the sight with a jealous pang that makes her shiver and clasp her
little hands desperately together.
Then the curtain falls for the last time, and she looks up and catches
Lord Delaval’s eye.
It seems to be searching her very soul with a fixed, keen gaze that has
something regretful about it, though his lips have a half-mocking smile.
“That fellow, Conway, really acts tolerably,” he says aloud to
Gabrielle. “Did you notice the ring of pathos and truth in his voice?
And yet those sort of chaps lead such a hollow life of shams and tricks,
that they can’t possibly have a genuine feeling in them. What do you
think of Flora Fitzallan, Miss Beranger?”
“Just what one thinks of such creatures,” Gabrielle answers
contemptuously, “outside all paint and powder. Inside----”
“Pray don’t give your opinion on people like Miss Fitzallan, Gabrielle.
They are not fit subjects for your discussion; at any rate before me and
my daughters!” Lady Beranger remarks severely.
Gabrielle elevates her brows and shrugs her shoulders. Then, as her
stepmother sweeps away, she says:
“I think one thing about Miss Fitzallan, Lord Delaval. I think she has a
_grande passion_ for Carl Conway, and I expect she does not try to hide
it--_off the stage_!”
And Zai hearkens in bitterness of spirit, but does not love Carl one
whit the less.
“I say, Zai, did you see that Lady Yolande kiss Carl? She kissed him
_right on the mouth_. And I have heard that it is not _convenable_ to
do that sort of thing on the stage!” Baby whispers.
And still Zai holds her tongue, but as she listens, it seems to her that
it is the last straw to break the camel’s back.
[Illustration: text decoration]