speak to him myself," he thought.

The curtain went up, disclosing Esperance, a book in her hand, her
back to the public. She was not reading. That was evident from the
weary droop of her body, from the rigid gaze into space. A coming
storm was heralded by her quick motion, when she sprang up, threw
aside her book, shook the pretty head to drive away the black
butterflies in her brain, and ran to kiss her stage mother, who was
playing Bridge with the villainess of the piece. There was such
spontaneity in her movements that the sympathetic audience cried out,
"Bravo!"

In the course of the act, Esperance secured several salvos of
applause. The sustained emotion of the grief that overwhelmed her and
the spasm of weeping which closed the act gave the young artist
complete assurance of the public's earnest approval.


Sardou had dropped into the box of the Minister Plenipotentiary. He
hid himself from the public, but sought the opinion of his great
friend.

"Will you," asked the Minister, "present me to your young heroine?"

"Oh! let me come with you," besought his wife.

The Belgian Prince looked questioningly at Sardou, and at his nod of
acquiescence they prepared to go and salute the new star just risen in
the Parisian firmament.