WHAT MAY BE HEARD IN A GREENROOM.
One evening in November a new ballet was given at the Opéra. Its
production had been heralded in the manner which has found most favor
with Parisian impressarii. The dead walls of the capital were not
adorned with colored lithographs. The advertising sheets held no
notice of the coming performance. But for several weeks previous the
columns of the liveliest journals had teemed with items and discreet
indiscretions.
Through these measures the curiosity of the Tout-Paris had been coerced
afresh, and, when the curtain, after falling on the second act of the
“Favorite” parted again before the new ballet, there was hardly a
vacant seat in the house.
The box which Mr. Incoul had taken for the season was on what is known
as the grand tier. It was roomy, holding eight comfortably and twelve
if need be. But Maida, who was adverse to anything that suggested
crowding, was always disinclined to ask more than five or six to
share it with her, and on the particular evening to which allusion is
made she extended her hospitality to but four people: Mr. and Mrs.
Wainwaring and their daughter, New Yorkers like herself, and the
Duc de la Dèche, a nobleman who served as figure-head to the Cercle
des Capucines, and who, so ran the gossip, was anxious to effect an
exchange of his coroneted freedom for the possession of Miss Wainwaring
and a bundle or two of her father’s securities.
During the _entr’acte_ that preceded the ballet the box was invaded by
a number of visitors, young men who were indebted to Maida for a dinner
or a cup of tea and by others who hoped that such indebtedness was
still in store for them; there came, too, a popular artist who wished
to paint Maida’s portrait for the coming Salon and an author who may
have had much cleverness, but who never displayed it to any one.
As the invasion threatened to continue Mr. Incoul went out in the
corridor, where he was presently joined by the duke, who suggested
that they should visit the foyer. They made their way down the
giant stair and turning through the lobby passed on through the
corridor that circles the stalls until they reached a door guarded
from non-subscribers by a Suisse about whose neck there drooped a
medallioned chain of silver. By him the door was opened wide and the
two men passed on through a forest of side scenes till the _foyer de la
danse_ was reached.
It was a spacious apartment, well lighted and lined with mirrors; the
furniture was meagre, a dozen or more chairs and lounges of red plush.
It was not beautiful, but then what market ever is? To Mr. Incoul
it was brilliant as a café, and equally vulgar. From dressing-rooms
above and beyond there came a stream of willowy girls. Few among them
were pretty, and some there were whose faces were repulsive, but the
majority were young; some indeed, the rats, as they are called, were
mere children. Here and there was a mother of the Mme. Cardinal type,
armed with an umbrella and prepared to listen to offers. As a rule,
however, the young ladies of the ballet were quite able to attend to
any little matter of business without maternal assistance. The Italian
element was easily distinguishable. There was the ultra darkness of
the eye, the faint umber of the skin, the richer vitality, in fact, of
which the anemic daughters of Paris were unpossessed. And now and then
the Gothic gutturals of the Spanish were heard, preceded by a wave of
garlic.
That night the subscribers to the stalls were out in full force. There
were Jew bankers in plenty, there were detachments from the Jockey
and the Mirletons, one or two foreign representatives, a few high
functionaries, the Minister of the Interior, and he of the Fine Arts, a
member of the imperial family of Russia, a number of stock brokers and
an Arab Sheik flanked by an interpreter.
Before the curtain rose, battalions of ballerines formed on the stage,
and after the performance began they were succeeded by others, the
first contingent returning to the dressing-rooms or loitering in the
foyer. In this way there was a constant coming and going accompanied by
the murmur of the spectators beyond and the upper notes of the flute.
Mr. Incoul was growing weary; he would have returned to the box, but
he was joined by acquaintances that he had made at the club, Frenchmen
mainly, friends of his companion, and presently he found himself
surrounded by a group of _viveurs_, men about town, who had their Paris
at the end of their gloves, and to whom it held no secrets. They had
dined and talked animatedly in ends and remnants of phrases in a sort
of verbal telegraphy; an exclamation helped by a gesture sufficing as
often as not for the full conveyance of their thought.
Mr. Incoul spoke French with tolerable ease, but having nothing of
moment to say, he held his tongue, contenting himself with listening
to the words of those who stood about him. And as he listened, the
name of Mirette caught his ear. The programme had already informed
him that it was she who was to assume the principal rôle in the new
ballet, consequently he was not unfamiliar with it, but of the woman
herself he knew nothing, and he listened idly, indifferent to ampler
information. But at once his interest quickened; his immediate neighbor
had mentioned her in connection with one whom he knew.
“They came up from Biarritz together,” he heard him say. “She went
there with Chose, that Russian.”
“Balaguine?”
“Precisely.”
“What did she do with him?”
“Found the Tartar, I fancy.”
“And then?”
“_Voilà_, this young American is mad about her.”
“He is rich then?”
“What would you? An American! They are it all.”
“Yes, a rich one always wins.”
“How mean you?”
“This: he plays bac at the Capucines. His banks are fructuous.”
“Ah, as to that--” And the first speaker shrugged his shoulders.
A rustle circled through the foyer, men stood aside and nodded affably.
The lights took on a fairer glow. “Stay,” murmured the second speaker,
“she is there.”
Through the parting crowd Mirette passed with a carriage such as no
queen, save perhaps Semiramis, ever possessed. She moved from the hips,
her body was erect and unswayed. It was the perfection of artificial
grace. Her features were not regular, but there was an expression
in them that stirred the pulse. “_Je suis l’Amour_,” she seemed to
say, and to add “_prends garde à toi_.” As she crossed the room men
moistened their lips, and when she had gone they found them still
parched.
Mr. Incoul followed her with his eyes. She had not left him unimpressed,
but his impression differed from that of his neighbors. In her face his
shrewdness had discerned nothing but the animal and the greed of
unsatiated appetites. He watched her pass, and stepped from the group
in which he had been standing that he might the better follow her
movements.
From the foyer she floated on into a side scene, yet not near enough
to the stage to be seen by the audience. A few machinists moved aside
to let her pass, and as they did so Mr. Incoul saw Lenox Leigh. It
was evident that he had been waiting there for her coming. There was
a scarf about her neck, and as the young man turned to greet her, she
took it off and gave it into his keeping. They whispered together.
Beyond, Mr. Incoul could see the tulle of the ballet rising and
subsiding to the rhythm of the orchestra. Then came a sudden blare of
trumpets, the measure swooned, and as it recovered again the ballet
had faded to the back of the stage. Abruptly, as though sprung from a
trap-door, a _régisseur_ appeared, and at a signal from him Mirette,
with one quick backward stroke to her skirt, bounded from the side
scene and fluttered down to the footlights amid a crash and thunder of
applause.
Mr. Incoul had heard and seen enough. His mind was busy. He felt the
need of fresh air and of solitude. He turned into the corridor and
from there went through the vestibule until he reached an outer door,
which he swung open and passed out into the night. He was thinly clad,
in evening dress, and the air was chilly, but he thought nothing of
his dress nor of the warmth or chill of the air. He walked up and
down before the building with his head bent and his hands behind his
back. A _camelot_ offered him a pack of transparent cards, a vender of
programmes pestered him to buy, but he passed them unheeding. For fully
half an hour he continued his walk, and when he re-entered the box,
Maida, who of late had given much attention to his moods, noticed that
his face was flushed, and that about his lips there played the phantom
of a smile.