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 behavior 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 with her. When Armand, with the
terrible words, "Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!" flung the
gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside
me and covered her face with her hands.

The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there was n't a nerve
in me that had n't been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me cry. I
loved Nanine tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good fellow! The
New Year's presents were not too much; nothing could be too much now. I
wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my breast-pocket, worn for
elegance and not at all for use, was wet through by the time that moribund
woman sank for the last time into the arms of her lover.

When we reached the door of the theater, the streets were shining with
rain. I had prudently brought along Mrs. Harling's useful Commencement
present, and I took Lena home under its shelter. After le