The great French dramatist, dark, pale-faced, and corpulent, stood upon
the extreme edge of the stage, brandishing his manuscript in his hand.
From close at hand, the stage manager watched him anxiously. For the
third time M. Graillot was within a few inches of the orchestra-well.
"If you would pardon me, M. Graillot," he ventured timidly, "the
footlights are quite unprotected, as you see."
Graillot glanced behind him and promptly abandoned his dangerous
position.
"It is you, ladies and gentlemen," he declared, shaking his manuscript
vigorously at the handful of people upon the stage, "who drive me into
forgetfulness and place me in the danger from which our friend here has
just rescued me. Do I not best know the words and the phrases which will
carry the messages of my play across the footlights? Who is to judge,
ladies and gentlemen--you or I?"
He banged the palm of his left hand with the rolled-up manuscript and
looked at them all furiously. A slight, middle-aged man, clean-shaven,
with a single eyeglass, and features very well known to the theatergoing
world, detached himself a little from the others.
"No one indeed, dear M. Graillot," he admitted, "could possibly know
these things so well as you; but, on the other hand, when you write in
your study at Fontainebleau you write for a quicker-minded public than
ours. The phrase which would find its way at once to the brain of the
French audience needs, shall I say, just a little amplification to carry
equal weight across the footlights of my theater. I will admit that we
are dealing with a translation which is, in its way, not sufficiently
literal, but our friend Shamus here has pointed out to me the
difficulties. The fact is, M. Graillot, that some of the finest phrases
in your work are untranslatable."
"There are times," the dramatist asserted, moistening his lips
vigorously with his tongue, "when I regret that I ever suffered Mr.
Shamus or anybody else to attempt to translate my inimitable play into a
language wholly inadequate to express its charm and subtlety!"
"Quite so," the actor remarked sympathetically; "but still, since the
deed has been done, M. Graillot, and since we are going to produce the
result in the course of a fortnight or so, or lose a great deal of
money, don't you think that we had all better try our utmost to insure
the success of the production?"
"The only success I care for," Graillot thundered, "is an artistic
success!"
"With Miss Maurel playing your leading part, M. Graillot," the
actor-manager declared, "not to speak of a company carefully selected to
the best of my judgment, I think you may venture to anticipate even
that."
The dramatist bowed hurriedly to Louise.
"You recall to me a fact," he said gallantly, "which almost reconciles
me to this diabolical travesty of some of my lines. Proceed,
then--proceed! I will be as patient as possible."
The stage manager shouted out some directions from his box. A gentleman
in faultless morning clothes, who seemed to have been thoroughly
enjoying the interlude, suddenly adopted the puppetlike walk of a
footman. Other actors, who had been whispering together in the wings,
came back to their places. Louise advanced alone, a little languidly, to
the front of the stage. At the first sound of her voice M. Graillot,
nodding his head vigorously, was soothed.
Her speech was a long one. It appeared that she had been arraigned
before a company of her relatives, assembled to comment upon her
misdeeds. She wound up with a passionate appeal to her husband, Mr.
Miles Faraday, who had made an unexpected appearance. M. Graillot's
face, as she concluded, was wreathed in smiles.
"Ah!" he cried. "You have lifted us all up! Now I feel once more the
inspiration. _Mademoiselle_, I kiss your hand," he went on. "It is you
who still redeem my play. You bring back the spirit of it to me. In you
I see the embodiment of my _Therese_."
Miles Faraday gave a little sigh of relief and glanced gratefully toward
Louise. She nodded back to him and gave her hand to the Frenchman, who
held it to his lips.
"You flatter me, M. Graillot," she said. "It is simply that I feel the
force of your beautiful words. _Therese_ is a wonderful conception! As
to those disputed passages--well, I feel myself in a very difficult
position. Artistically, I am entirely in accord with you, and yet I
understand exactly what Mr. Faraday means from the commercial point of
view. Let us submit the matter to the prince. He knows something of both
sides of the question."
The Prince of Seyre, who was seated in the orchestra-leader's chair,
looked reproachfully toward Louise.
"Is this fair?" he protested. "Remember that I am more than half a
Frenchman, and that I am one of our friend's most faithful disciples. I
realize the delicacy of the situation, and I understand Mr. Faraday's
point of view. I tell you frankly that the thought of an empty theater
appals me. It is not the money--I am sure you all know that--but there
isn't a single man or woman in the world who can do his best unless he
or she plays to a full house. Somehow or other, we must secure our
audience."
"It really comes to this," Faraday intervened. "Shall we achieve a
purely artistic triumph and drive the people away? Or shall we--at the
expense, I admit, of some of the finest passages in M. Graillot's superb
drama--compromise the matter and keep our box-office open? In a more
humble way I hope I also may call myself an artist; and yet not only
must I live myself, but I have a staff of employees dependent upon me."
Graillot waved his hand.
"So! No more!" he exclaimed grandiloquently. "The affair is finished. My
consent is given. Delete the lines! As to the scene laid in the bedroom
of _madame_, to-night I shall take up my pen. By noon to-morrow I will
give you a revision which will puff out the cheeks of the Philistines
with satisfaction. Have no fear, _cher ami_ Faraday! Mothers shall bring
their unmarried daughters to see our play. They shall all watch it
without a blush. If there is anything to make the others think, it shall
be beneath the surface. It shall be for the great artist whom it is my
supreme joy to watch," he went on, bowing to Louise, "to act and express
the real truth of my ideas through the music of innocent words."
"Then all is arranged," Miles Faraday concluded briskly. "We will leave
the second act until tomorrow; then M. Graillot will bring us his
revision. We will proceed now to the next act. Stand back a little, if
you please, ladies and gentlemen. Miss Maurel, will you make your
entrance?"
Louise made no movement. Her eyes were fixed upon a certain shadowy
corner of the wings. Overwrought as she had seemed a few minutes ago,
with the emotional excitement of her long speech, there was now a new
and curious expression upon her face. She seemed to be looking beyond
the gloomy, unlit spaces of the theater into some unexpected land.
Curiously enough, the three people there most interested in her--the
prince, Graillot, and her friend, Sophy Gerard--each noticed the change.
The little fair-haired girl, who owed her small part in the play to
Louise, quitted her chair to follow the direction of her friend's eyes.
Faraday, with the frown of an actor-manager resenting an intrusion,
gazed in the same direction.
To Sophy, the newcomer was simply the handsomest young man she had ever
seen in her life. To Faraday he represented nothing more nor less than
the unwelcome intruder. The prince alone, with immovable features, but
with a slight contraction of his eyebrows, gazed with distrust, almost
with fear, unaccountable yet disturbing, at the tall hesitating figure
that stood just off the stage.
Louise only knew that she was amazed at herself, amazed to find the
walls of the theater falling away from her. She forgot the little
company of her friends by whom she was surrounded. She forgot the
existence of the famous dramatist who hung upon her words, and the
close presence of the prince. Her feet no longer trod the dusty boards
of the theater. She was almost painfully conscious of the perfume of
apple-blossom.
"You!" she exclaimed, stretching out her hands. "Why do you not come and
speak to me? I am here!"
John came out upon the stage. The French dramatist, with his hands
behind his back, made swift mental notes of an interesting situation. He
saw the coming of a man who stood like a giant among them, sunburnt,
buoyant with health, his eyes bright with the wonder of his unexpected
surroundings; a man in whose presence every one else seemed to represent
an effete and pallid type of humanity.
The dramatist and the prince were satisfied, however, with one single
glance at the newcomer. Afterward, their whole regard was focused upon
Louise. The same thought was in the mind of both of them--the same
fear!