h occasioned it; and while a stern and
impassive quietude characterized her expression generally, her eyes
at times flashed and sparkled like the glaring orbs of a lioness. She
descended to the drawing-room most magnificently attired, a splendid
diamond tiara on her head, and a gorgeous bouquet of rubies and
brilliants on the corsage of her dress. Although pale as death,--for
she wore no rouge,--I had never seen her look so beautiful. There is a
Titian picture of Pompey's daughter receiving the tidings of Pharsalia,
and, while too proud to show her agony, is yet in the very struggle of
a breaking heart: the face is like enough to have been her portrait, and
even to the color of the massive, waving hair, is wonderfully identical.

The play had already begun when we arrived at the theatre, and in
the little bustle caused by our entry into the box, a half impatient
expression ran through the audience; but as suddenly suppressed, it
became a murmur of wondering admiration. The stage was forgotten, and
every eye turned at once towards her who so often had moved their hearts
by every emotion, and who now seemed even more triumphant in the calm
self-possession of her beauty. Rank over rank leaned forward in the
boxes to gaze at her, and the entire pit turned and stood, as it were,
spell-bound at her feet. Had she wished for a triumph over her rival,
she could not have imagined a more signal one; for none now directed
their attention to the business of the play, but all seemed forgetful of
everything save her presence. Margot appeared to accept this homage with
the naughty consciousness of its being her due; her eyes ranged proudly
over the dense crowd, and slowly turned away, as though she had seen
nothing there to awaken one sentiment of emotion.

There was less an expression of disdain than of utter indifference in
her look,--it was almost like the cold impassive-ness of a statue.

For myself I am unable to speak. I saw nothing of the play or the
actors. Margot, and Margot alone, filled my eyes; and I sat far back
in the box. My glances revelled on her, watching with unceasing anxiety
that pale and passionless face. In the fourth act comes the scene where
Roxalane, aware of her lover's falsehood, hears him profess the vows
that he but feigns to feel. It was the great triumph of Margot's
genius,--the passage of power in which she rose unapproachably above all
others; and now in the stilled and silent assembly might be noted