time to go to his dressing-room and put on his white sweater,
black breeches, black stockings: an athletic costume which he always kept
at the theater in case of need. And quick, in the saddle: the moment had
come! He must succeed, now or never! And Jimmy, calm and sure of himself,
took his seat on the aerobike. A great silence followed....

Lily, at that very minute, anxious at not being sent for in her
dressing-room, was going back to the stage, but she was stopped at the top
of the stairs by the stage-manager, who said that he had received an order
by telephone from Cologne, from Harrasford: Lily not to perform that
night....

"Let me pass," cried Lily, laughing in spite of everything. "That's enough
of a joke. It's time for me to go on, I say! Are you mad? I tell you, it's
my turn!"

But she ceased, as though struck by thunder. The aerobike, with wings wide
open, was taking flight toward the stars, in a tempestuous wind.

It was done! The thing had shot past her very nose! She thought that she
would fall, so great was the pain at her heart.

"No! No!" she gasped, with dilated eyes.

And, suddenly, she understood and uttered a cry of rage!

But she could have shouted, "Murder!" and it would have sounded as the
buzzing of a bee amid that explosion of cheers. And the orchestra grew
like a flame and the light appeared, increased and shone all over the
house.

Lily flung herself back, closed her eyes so as not to see, fled to her
dressing-room with a shriek like a wounded beast's....

CHAPTER V

She dropped into her chair, stopped up her ears; but the cheers never
ceased, kept on increasing, filled the theater with a roar as of thunder!
Oh, it seemed to her that her chest was on fire, that they were pounding
her heart; that some one was taking her by the hair and banging her head
against the walls! And that storm of applause kept on and kept on ... but
it wasn't for her! It was for Jimmy all the time: they had tried it with
her, that was all! To see if it worked! And she, she, she who, only just
now, was giving herself airs with the others: a poor rag, yes, that was
all she was, less than anybody; less than Tom, her old servant, less than
Glass-Eye, that idiot, less than Ave Maria, less than a performing dog,
less than anything, worse than anything, perhaps! Mad with rage she jumped
at her gollywog, pulled down the white-eyed idol--the traitor!--spat on
it, crushed it on the floor with her heel, furio