Author of "In the Midst of Alarms," "A Typewritten Letter," etc.
In the bad days of Balmaceda, when Chili was rent in twain, and its
capital was practically a besieged city, two actors walked together
along the chief street of the place towards the one theatre that
was then open. They belonged to a French dramatic company that would
gladly have left Chili if it could; but being compelled by stress
of war to remain, the company did the next best thing, and gave
performances at the principal theatre on such nights as a paying
audience came.
A stranger would hardly have suspected, by the look of the streets,
that a deadly war was going on, and that the rebels--so called--were
almost at the city gates. Although business was ruined, credit dead,
and no man's life or liberty safe, the streets were filled with a
crowd that seemed bent on enjoyment and making the best of things.
As Jacques Dupré and Carlos Lemoine walked together they were talking
earnestly, not of the real war so close to their doors, but of the
mimic conflicts of the stage. M. Dupré was the leading man of the
company, and he listened with the amused tolerance of an elder man to
the energetic vehemence of the younger.
"You are all wrong, Dupré," cried Lemoine, "all wrong! I have studied
the subject. Remember I am saying nothing against your acting in
general. You know you have no greater admirer than I am, and that is
something to say when you know that the members of a dramatic company
are usually at loggerheads through jealousy."
"Speak for yourself, Lemoine. You know I am green with jealousy of
you. You are the rising star, and I am setting. You can't teach an old
dog new tricks, Carl, my boy."
"That's nonsense, Dupré. I wish you would consider this seriously. It
is because you are so good on the stage that I can't bear to see you
false to your art just to please the gallery. You should be above all
that."
"How can a man be above his gallery--the highest spot in the house?
Talk sense, Carlos, and I'll listen."
"Yes, you're flippant simply because you know you're wrong, and
dare not argue this matter soberly. Now she stabs you through the
heart--"
"No. False premises entirely. She says something about my wicked
heart, and evidently _intends_ to pierce that depraved organ; but a
woman never hits what she aims at, and I deny that I'm ever stabbed
through the heart. Say in the region or the neighborhood of the heart,
and go on with your talk."
"Very well. She stabs you in a spot so vital that you die in a
few minutes. You throw up your hands, you stagger against the
mantel-shelf, you tear open your collar and then grope at nothing; you
press your hands on your wound and take two reeling steps forward; you
call feebly for help and stumble against the sofa which you fall upon,
and finally, still groping wildly, you roll off on the floor, where
you kick out once or twice; your clinched hand comes down with a thud
on the boards, and all is over."
"Admirably described, Carlos. I wish my audience paid such attention
to my efforts as you do. Now, you claim this is all wrong, do you?"
"All wrong."
"Suppose she stabbed you, what would _you_ do?"
"I would plunge forward on my face--dead."
"Great Heavens! What would become of your curtain?"
"Oh, bother the curtain!"
"It's all very well for you to condemn the curtain, Carl, but you must
work up to it. Your curtain would come down, and your friends in
the gallery would not know what had happened. Now, I go through the
evolutions you so graphically describe, and the audience gets time
to take in the situation. They say, chuckling to themselves, 'That
villain's got his dose at last, and serves him right, too.' They want
to enjoy his struggles, while she stands grimly at the door taking
care that he doesn't get away. Then when my fist comes down flop on
the stage, and they realize that I am indeed done for, the yell of
triumph that goes up is something delicious to hear."
"That's just the point, Dupré. I claim the actor has no right to
hear applause--that he should not know there is such a thing as an
audience. His business is to portray life exactly as it is."
"You can't portray life in a death scene, Carl."
"Dupré, I lose all patience with you, or rather I would did I not
know that you are much deeper than you would have us suppose. You
apparently won't see that I am very much in earnest about this."
"Of course you are, my boy, and that is one reason why you will
become a very great actor, I was ambitious myself once; but as we grow
older"--Dupré shrugged his shoulders--"well, we begin to have an eye
on the box-office receipts. I think you sometimes forget that I am a
good deal older than you are."
"You mean that I am a fool and that I may learn wisdom with age. I
quite admit that you are a better actor than I am; in fact, I said so
only a moment ago, but--"
"You wrong me, Brutus; I said an older soldier, not a better. But I
will take you on your own grounds. Have you ever seen a man stabbed or
shot through the heart?"
"I never have, but I know mighty well he wouldn't undo his necktie
afterwards."
Dupré threw back his head and laughed.
"Who is flippant now?" he asked.
"I don't undo my necktie; I merely tear off my collar, which a dying
man may surely be permitted to do. But until you have seen a man die
from such a stab as I receive every night, I don't understand how you
can justly find fault with my rendition of the tragedy. I imagine, you
know, that the truth lies between the two extremes. The man done to
death would likely not make such a fuss as I make; nor would he depart
so quickly as you say he would, without giving the gallery gods a
show for their money. But here we are at the theatre, Carlos, and this
acrimonious debate is closed--until we take our next walk together."
In front of the theatre soldiers were on duty, marching up and down
with muskets on their shoulders, to show that the state was mighty and
could take care of a theatre as well as conduct a war. There were many
loungers about, which might have indicated to a person who did not
know, that there would be a good house when the play began. The two
actors met the manager in the throng near the door.
"How are prospects to-night?" asked Dupré.
"Very poor," replied the manager. "Not half a dozen seats have been
sold."
"Then it isn't worth while beginning?"
"We must begin," said the manager, lowering his voice. "The President
has ordered me not to close the theatre."
"Oh, hang the President!" cried Lemoine impatiently. "Why doesn't he
put a stop to the war, and then the theatre would remain open of its
own accord?"
"He is doing his best to put a stop to the war, only his army does not
carry out his orders as implicitly as our manager does," said Dupré,
smiling at the other's vehemence.
"Balmaceda is a fool," retorted the younger actor. "If he were out of
the way the war would not last another day. I believe he is playing a
losing game, anyhow. It's a pity he hasn't to go to the front himself,
and then a stray bullet might find him and put an end to the war,
which would save the lives of many better men."
"I say, Lemoine, I wish you wouldn't talk like that," expostulated the
manager gently, "especially when there are so many listeners."
"Oh, the larger my audience the better I like it," rejoined Lemoine.
"I have all an actor's vanity in that respect. I say what I think, and
I don't care who hears me."
"Yes; but you forget that we are, in a measure, guests of this
country, and we should not abuse our hosts, or the man who represents
them."
"Ah, does he represent them? It seems to me that begs the whole
question; that's just what the war is about. The general opinion is
that Balmaceda misrepresents them, and that the country would be glad
to be rid of him."
"That may all be," said the manager almost in a whisper, for he was a
man evidently inclined towards peace; "but it does not rest with us
to say so. We are French, and I think therefore it is better not to
express an opinion."
"I'm not French," cried Lemoine. "I'm a native Chilian, and I have a
right to abuse my own country if I choose to do so."
"All the more reason, then," said the manager, looking timorously over
his shoulder--"all the more reason that you should be careful what you
say."
"I suppose," said Dupré, by way of putting an end to the discussion,
"it is time for us to get our war paint on. Come along, Lemoine,
and lecture me on our mutual art, and stop talking politics--if the
nonsense you utter about Chili and its President is politics."
[Illustration: "MY GOD!--YOU WERE RIGHT--AFTER ALL."]
The two actors entered the theatre; they occupied the same
dressing-room, and the volatile Lemoine talked incessantly. Although
there were but few people in the stalls, the gallery was well filled,
as was usually the case. When going on for the last act in the final
scene, Dupré whispered a word to the man who controlled the falling of
the curtain; and when the actor, as the villain of the piece, received
the fatal knife-thrust from the ill-used heroine, he plunged forward
on his face and died without a struggle, to the amazement of the
manager, who was watching the play from the front of the house, and
to the evident bewilderment of the gallery, who had counted on an
exciting struggle with death. Much as they desired the cutting off of
the villain, they were not pleased to see him so suddenly shift
his worlds without an agonizing realization of the fact that he was
quitting an existence in which he had done nothing but evil. The
curtain came down upon the climax, but there was no applause, and the
audience silently filtered out into the street.
"There," said Dupré, when he returned to his dressing-room, "I hope
you are satisfied now, Lemoine, and if you are, you are the only
satisfied person in the house. I fell perfectly flat, as you
suggested, and you must have seen that the climax of the play fell
flat also."
"Nevertheless," persisted Lemoine stoutly, "it was the true rendition
of the part."
As they were talking, the manager came into their dressing-room. "Good
Heavens, Dupré!" he said, "why did you end the piece in that idiotic
way? What on earth got into you?"
"The knife," said Dupré, flippantly. "It went directly through the
heart, and Lemoine, here, insists that when that happens a man should
fall dead instantly. I did it to please Lemoine."
"But you spoiled your curtain," protested the manager.
"Yes; I knew that would happen, and I told Lemoine so; but he insists
on art for art's sake. You must expostulate with Lemoine; although I
don't mind telling you both frankly that I don't intend to die in that
way again."
"Well, I hope not," replied the manager. "I don't want you to kill the
play as well as yourself, you know, Dupré."
Lemoine, whose face had by this time become restored to its normal
appearance, retorted hotly:
"It all goes to show how we are surrounded and hampered by the
traditions of the stage. The gallery wants to see a man die all over
the place, and so the victim has to scatter the furniture about and
make a fool of himself generally, when he should quietly succumb to a
well-deserved blow. You ask any physician, and he will tell you that
a man stabbed or shot through the heart collapses at once. There is
no jumping-jack business in such a case. He doesn't play at leap-frog
with the chairs and sofas, but sinks instantly to the floor and is
done for."
"Come along, Lemoine," cried Dupré, putting on his coat, "and stop
talking nonsense. True art consists in a judicious blending of the
preconceived ideas of the gallery with the actual facts of the
case. An instantaneous photograph of a trotting horse is doubtless
technically and absolutely correct, yet it is not a true picture of
the animal in motion."
"Then you admit," said Lemoine quickly, "that I am technically correct
in what I state about the result of such a wound?"
"I admit nothing," said Dupré. "I don't believe you are correct in
anything you say about the matter. I suppose the truth is that no two
men die alike under the same circumstances."
"They do when the heart is touched."
"What absurd nonsense you talk! No two men act alike when the heart
is touched in love; why then should they when it is touched in death?
Come along to the hotel, and let us stop this idiotic discussion."
"Ah!" sighed Lemoine, "you will throw your chances away. You are too
careless, Dupré; you do not study enough. This kind of thing is all
well enough in Chili, but it will wreck your chances when you go to
Paris. If you studied more deeply, Dupré, you would take Paris by
storm."
"Thanks," said Dupré lightly; "but unless the rebels take this city
by storm, and that shortly, we may never see Paris again. To tell the
truth, I have no heart for anything but the heroine's knife. I am sick
and tired of the situation here."
As Dupré spoke they met a small squad of soldiers coming briskly
towards the theatre. The man in charge evidently recognized them, for
saying a word to his men, they instantly surrounded the two actors.
The sergeant touched Lemoine on the shoulder, and said:
"It is my duty to arrest you, sir."
"In Heaven's name, why?" asked Lemoine.
The man did not answer; but a soldier stepped to each side of Lemoine.
"Am I under arrest also?" asked Dupré.
"No."
"By what authority do you arrest my friend?" inquired Dupré.
"By the President's order."
"But where is your authority? Where are your papers? Why is this
arrest made?"
The sergeant shook his head and said:
"We have the orders of the President, and that is sufficient for us.
Stand back, please!"
The next instant Dupré found himself alone, with the squad and their
prisoner disappearing down a back street. For a moment he stood there
as if dazed, then he turned and ran as fast as he could back to the
theatre again, hoping to meet a carriage for hire on the way. Arriving
at the theatre he found the lights out and the manager on the point of
leaving.
"Lemoine has been arrested," he cried; "arrested by a squad of
soldiers whom we met, and they said they acted by the order of the
President."
The manager seemed thunderstruck by the intelligence, and gazed
helplessly at Dupré.
"What is the charge?" he said at last.
"That I do not know," answered the actor. "They simply said they were
acting under the President's orders."
"This is bad, as bad as can be," said the manager, looking over
his shoulder, and speaking as if in fear. "Lemoine has been talking
recklessly. I never could get him to realize that he was in Chili,
and that he must not be so free in his speech. He always insisted that
this was the nineteenth century, and a man could say what he liked; as
if the nineteenth century had anything to do with Chili in its present
state."
"You don't imagine," said Dupré, with a touch of pallor coming into
his cheeks, "that this is anything serious? It will mean nothing more
than a day or two in prison, at the worst?"
The manager shook his head and said:
"We had better get a carriage and see the President as soon as
possible. I'll undertake to send Lemoine back to Paris, or to put
him on board one of the French iron-clads. But there is no time to be
lost. We can probably get a carriage in the square."
They found a carriage, and drove as quickly as they could to the
residence of the President. At first they were refused admittance; but
finally they were allowed to wait in a small room while their message
was taken to Balmaceda. An hour passed, but still no invitation came
to them from the President. The manager sat silent in a corner, but
Dupré paced up and down the small room, torn with anxiety about his
friend. At last an officer entered the room, and presented them with
the compliments of the President, who regretted that it was impossible
for him to see them that night. He added for their information, by
order of the President, that Lemoine was to be shot at day-break. He
had been tried by court-martial, and condemned to death for sedition.
The President regretted having kept them waiting so long, but the
court-martial had been going on when they arrived, and the President
thought that perhaps they would be interested in the verdict. With
that the officer escorted the two dumfounded men to the door, where
they got into their carriage without a word. The moment they were out
of ear-shot, the manager said to the coachman:
"Drive as quickly as you can to the residence of the French minister."
Every one at the French Legation had retired when the two
panic-stricken men reached there; but after a time the secretary
consented to see them, and on learning the seriousness of the case, he
undertook to arouse his Excellency, and see if anything could be
done. The minister entered the room shortly after, and listened with
interest to what they had to say.
"You have your carriage at the door?" he asked, when they had finished
their recital.
"Yes."
"Then I will take it, and see the President at once. Perhaps you will
wait here until I return."
Another hour dragged its slow length along, and they were well into
the second hour before the rattle of the wheels was heard in the
silent street. The minister came in, and the two anxious men saw by
his face that he had failed in his mission.
"I am sorry to say," said his Excellency, "that I have been unable
even to get the execution postponed. I did not understand, when I
undertook the mission, that M. Lemoine was a citizen of Chili.
You see, that fact puts the matter entirely out of my hands. I am
powerless. I could only advise the President not to carry out his
intentions; but he is to-night in a most unreasonable and excited
mood, and I fear nothing can be done to save your friend. If he had
been a citizen of France, of course this execution would not have
been permitted to take place; but as it is, it is not our affair. M.
Lemoine seems to have been talking with some indiscretion. He does not
deny it himself, nor does he deny his citizenship. If he had taken a
conciliatory attitude at the court-martial the result might not have
been so disastrous; but it seems that he insulted the President to his
face, and predicted that he would within two weeks meet him in Hades.
The utmost I could do was to get the President to sign a permit for
you to see your friend, if you present it at the prison before the
execution takes place. I fear you have no time to lose. Here is the
paper."
Dupré took the document, and thanked his Excellency for his exertions
on their behalf. He realized that Lemoine had sealed his own fate by
his independence and lack of tact.
The two dejected men drove from the Legation and through the deserted
streets to the prison. They were shown through several stone-paved
rooms to a stone-paved court-yard, and there they waited for some time
until the prisoner was brought in between two soldiers. Lemoine had
thrown off his coat, and appeared in his shirt-sleeves. He was not
manacled or bound in any way, there being too many prisoners for each
one to be allowed the luxury of fetters.
"Ah," cried Lemoine, when he saw them, "I knew you would come if that
old scoundrel of a President would allow you in, of which I had my
doubts. How did you manage it?"
"The French minister got us a permit," said Dupré.
"Oh, you went to him, did you? Of course he could do nothing, for, as
I told you, I have the misfortune to be a citizen of this country. How
comically life is made up of trivialities! I remember once in Paris
going with a friend to take the oath of allegiance to the French
Republic."
"And did you take it?" cried Dupré eagerly.
"Alas, no! We met two other friends, and we all adjourned to a café
and had something to drink. I little thought that bottle of champagne
was going to cost me my life; for, of course, if I had taken the oath
of allegiance, my friend the French minister would have bombarded the
city before he would have allowed this execution to go on."
"Then you know to what you are condemned?" said the manager, with
tears in his eyes.
"Oh, I know that Balmaceda thinks he is going to have me shot; but
then he always was a fool, and never knew what he was talking about. I
told him if he would allow you two in at the execution, and instead of
ordering a whole squad to fire at me, order one expert marksman, if
he had such a thing in his whole army, who would shoot me through
the heart, that I would show you, Dupré, how a man dies under such
circumstances; but the villain refused. The usurper has no soul for
art, or for anything else, for that matter. I hope you two won't mind
my death. I assure you I don't mind it myself I would much rather be
shot than live in this confounded country any longer. But I have made
up my mind to cheat old Balmaceda if I can, and I want you, Dupré, to
pay particular attention, and not to interfere."
As Lemoine said this he quickly snatched from the sheath at the
soldier's side the bayonet which hung at his hip. The soldiers were
standing one to the right and one to the left of him, with their hands
interlaced over the muzzles of their guns, whose butts rested on the
stone floor. They apparently paid no attention to the conversation
that was going on, if they understood it, which was unlikely. Lemoine
had the bayonet in his hands before either of the four men present
knew what he was doing.
Grasping both hands over the butt of the bayonet, with the point
towards his breast, he thrust the blade with desperate energy nearly
through his body. The whole action was done so quickly that no one
realized what had happened until Lemoine threw his hands up and they
saw the bayonet sticking in his breast. A look of agony came in the
wounded man's eyes, and his lips whitened. He staggered against
the soldier at his right, who gave way with the impact, and then he
tottered against the whitewashed stone wall, his right arm sweeping
automatically up and down the wall as if he were brushing something
from the stones. A groan escaped him, and he dropped on one knee. His
eyes turned helplessly towards Dupré, and he gasped out the words:
"My God!--you were right--after all."
Then he fell forward on his face, and the tragedy ended.