wide doors of the classes were
open, and so were the equally wide garden-doors; orange-trees in tubs,
and tall flowers in pots, ornamented these portals on each side; groups
of ladies and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walked amongst the
flowers. Within, the long vista of the school-rooms presented a
thronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streaming multitude, all
rose, and blue, and half translucent white. There were lustres burning
overhead; far off there was a stage, a solemn green curtain, a row of
footlights.

"Nest-ce pas que c'est beau?" demanded my companion.

I should have said it was, but my heart got up into my throat. M. Paul
discovered this, and gave me a side-scowl and a little shake for my
pains.

"I will do my best, but I wish it was over," said I; then I asked: "Are
we to walk through that crowd?"

"By no means: I manage matters better: we pass through the
garden--here."

In an instant we were out of doors: the cool, calm night revived me
somewhat. It was moonless, but the reflex from the many glowing windows
lit the court brightly, and even the alleys--dimly. Heaven was
cloudless, and grand with the quiver of its living fires. How soft are
the nights of the Continent! How bland, balmy, safe! No sea-fog; no
chilling damp: mistless as noon, and fresh as morning.

Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of the first
classe. It stood open, like all other doors that night; we passed, and
then I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing the first classe from
the grand salle. This cabinet dazzled me, it was so full of light: it
deafened me, it was clamorous with voices: it stifled me, it was so
hot, choking, thronged.

"De l'ordre! Du silence!" cried M. Paul. "Is this chaos?", he demanded;
and there was a hush. With a dozen words, and as many gestures, he
turned out half the persons present, and obliged the remnant to fall
into rank. Those left were all in costume: they were the performers,
and this was the green-room. M. Paul introduced me. All stared and some
tittered. It was a surprise: they had not expected the Englishwoman
would play in a _vaudeville_. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for
her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes
as round as beads. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear or
bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of shining off before
hundreds--my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in the
midst o