ng my heart. But not so much as her cynicism
in the long dialogue with her lover which followed. How far was I from
questioning her unbelief! While the charmingly sincere young man pleaded
with her--accompanied by the orchestra in the old 'Traviata' duet,
'misterioso, misterios' altero!'--she maintained her bitter scepticism,
and the curtain fell on her dancing recklessly with the others, after
Armand had been sent away with his flower.

Between the acts we had no time to forget. The orchestra kept sawing
away at the 'Traviata' music, so joyous and sad, so thin and far-away,
so clap-trap and yet so heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena
in tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby
to smoke. As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I had
not brought some Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about the
junior dances, or whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth. Lena was
at least a woman, and I was a man.

Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder Duval, Lena wept
unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the closing of that chapter
of idyllic love, dreading the return of the young man whose ineffable
happiness was only to be the measure of his fall.

I suppose no woman could have been further in person, voice, and
temperament from Dumas' appealing heroine than the veteran actress who
first acquainted me with her. Her conception of the character was as
heavy and uncompromising as her diction; she bore hard on the idea
and on the consonants. At all times she was highly tragic, devoured by
remorse. Lightness of stress or behaviour was far from her. Her voice
was heavy and deep: 'Ar-r-r-mond!' she would begin, as if she were
summoning him to the bar of Judgment. But the lines were enough. She had
only to utter them. They created the character in spite of her.

The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never
been so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in
Olympe's salon for the fourth act. There were chandeliers hung from the
ceiling, I remember, many servants in livery, gaming-tables where the
men played with piles of gold, and a staircase down which the guests
made their entrance. After all the others had gathered round the
card-tables and young Duval had been warned by Prudence, Marguerite
descended the staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such a fan, such
jewels--and her face! One knew at a glance how it was w