"It is for you to say," she answered, smiling faintly. He laughed,
pressed her hand, and bade her good-night, leaving her with more
matter for thought than he could have suspected.

There was real cheering for her that night when she left the theatre.
Truda had been cheered before in many cities; but that night she took
note of it, looking with attention at the thrusting crowd collected
to applaud her. It filled the square, restless as a sea under the
tall lamps; rank upon rank of shadow-barred faces showed themselves,
vociferous and unanimous--a crowd in a good temper. She bowed in
acknowledgment of the shouts, but her face was grave, for she was
taking account of what it meant to be alone amid an alien multitude,
sharing none of its motives and emotions. The fat coachman edged his
horses through the men that blocked the way, till there was space to
go ahead, and the cheers, steady and unflagging, followed her out of
sight.

The baby was in bed when she arrived at her hotel; Truda paid a brief
visit to its side, then ordered that her manager should be summoned,
and sat down to write a note. It was to the big young Jew, the baby's
uncle; she had a shrewd notion that Monsieur Vaucher would be able to
lay hands on him. The note was brief: "I fear there will be more
persecutions. The Governor can do nothing. When there is another
attack on our people send to me. Send to me without fail, for I have
one resource left."

"You can find the man?" she demanded of Vaucher.

The little hardened Frenchman was still under the spell of her
acting.