e, for there was an Italian season running. When it finished
there would be a prospect of an engagement for her if she first
learned the routine of acting at some less important theatre, and grew
accustomed to the footlights. Therefore, she played _en amateur_ on
the boards of the Treumann Theatre. Her natural gifts and her
extraordinary beauty caused a sensation. The _jeunesse doree_ went mad
over this new favorite of the hour. The piece which was played in
honor of the peasants was one of Offenbach's frivolous operas, in
which the ladies appear in the very scantiest of costumes. The noble
portion of the audience enjoy these displays more than do the poorer;
it did not, at all events, amuse the simple folk in Halina cloth. The
ballet, with the lightly clothed nymphs, their coquettish movements,
their seductive smiles, their bold display of limbs, and their short
petticoats, was not to the taste of the Bondavara miners. It was true
that the girls in the coal-pit wore no petticoats to speak of, but
then they were working. Who thought anything of that? Chivalry belongs
to the peasant as much as to the gentleman; the former indeed practise
the motto, "Honi soit qui mal y pense" more than do their
better-educated superiors. But now as Eveline entered they felt
ashamed. She came on as a fairy or goddess, concealed in gold-colored
clouds; the clouds were, however, transparent. Peter glowed with rage
to think all the world could penetrate this slight transparency; he
burned with jealous fury as Eveline smiled, coquetted, cast glances
here, there, and was stared at through a hundred opera-glasses. Peter
forgot that this was only a stage, and that the fairies who played
their parts upon it for an hour or so were many of them most virtuous
women, excellent wives and daughters; for what happens on the stage is
only play, not actuality. The former bridegroom did not reason in this
wise. You see, he was an uneducated peasant in coarse Halina cloth,
and his ignorant mind was filled with horror, disgust, rage. That she
should allow herself to be kissed, to be made love to--shame! No, my
good Peter, it was no shame, but a great honor. Out of the boxes
bouquets and wreaths fell on the stage; there was hardly a place where
she could put her feet; it was all flowers. The house resounded with
applause. This was not shame, but honor--certainly not of the same
kind that would be offered to a saint or a good woman; it was more the
worship offe