and returned to
his seat. Rosa beckoned to me, and I was introduced to the
stage-manager.

"Allow me to present to you Mr. Foster, one of my friends."

Rosa coughed, and I noticed that her voice was slightly hoarse.

"You have taken cold during the drive," I said, pouring into the sea
of French a little stream of English.

"Oh, no. It is nothing; it will pass off in a minute."

The stage-manager escorted me to a chair near a grand piano which
stood in the wings. Then some male artists, evidently people of
importance, appeared out of the darkness at the back of the stage.
Rosa took off her hat and gloves, and placed them on the grand piano.
I observed that she was flushed, and I put it down to the natural
excitement of the artist about to begin work. The orchestra sounded
resonantly in the empty theatre, and, under the yellow glare of
unshaded electricity, the rehearsal of "Carmen" began at the point
where Carmen makes her first entry.

As Rosa came to the centre of the stage from the wings she staggered.
One would have thought she was drunk. At her cue, instead of
commencing to sing, she threw up her hands, and with an appealing
glance at me sank down to the floor. I rushed to her, and immediately
the entire personnel of the theatre was in a state of the liveliest
excitement. I thought of a similar scene in London not many months
before. But the poor girl was perfectly conscious, and even
self-possessed.

"Water!" she murmured. "I shall die of thirst if you don't give me
some water to drink at once."

There appeared to be no water within the theatre, but at last some one
appeared with a carafe and glass. She drank two glassfuls, and then
dropped the glass, which broke on the floor.

"I am not well," she said; "I feel so hot, and there is that
hoarseness in my throat. Mr. Foster, you must take me home. The
rehearsal will have to be postponed again; I am sorry. It's very
queer."

She stood up with my assistance, looking wildly about her, but
appealing to no one but myself.

"It is queer," I said, supporting her.

"Mademoiselle was ill in the same way last time," several sympathetic
voices cried out, and some of the women caressed her gently.

"Let me get home," she said, half-shouting, and she clung to me. "My
hat--my gloves--quick!"

"Yes, yes," I said; "I will get a fiacre."

"Why not my victoria?" she questioned imperiously.

"Because you must go in a closed carriage," I said firmly.

"Mademoise