She had fallen ill. The prima donna of a single hour was lying in Olympia's bijou of a house, struggling with a nervous fever. The whole town had been made aware of the mournful fact; for the manager had spread the news broadcast through the journals, thus displacing disappointment with such overwhelming sympathy as the distress of beauty and genius is sure to excite. For more than a week, now, the prevailing topic had been this young girl; first the promise of a brilliant debut, then the momentary triumph and sudden breakdown; now came the news of her illness, true, in so much that she was seriously ill, but exaggerated into a romance which gave her out as dying with a shock of a too sensitive nature.
Olympia sang gloriously to crowded houses. In the romance woven around this young girl her parentage had been hinted at, and the practiced woman of the stage had managed to turn the public rumor into popularity for herself.
She had taken up the opera where Caroline had sunk down, and carried it triumphantly forward, filling the world with admiration of herself and sympathy for the girl.
On the morning when Caroline's illness was made public, some young men were seated in the window of a club-house, and one of them threw down the Times with an impatient movement.
"So we are not to have this new singer again to-morrow night or the next," he said. "Here is Olympia's name in the bills, while the other is ill with something on the brain or nerves."
"All a sham, to enhance the public interest, I dare say," answered another, taking up the journal. "There is nothing these musical people will not do for popularity. But it really was not needed here; the girl has beauty enough to carry her forward, even without her glorious voice. For my part, I am all in a fever to see her again."
A young man sat in this circle, apparently occupied by the panorama drifting through the streets. As the conversation went on, the color came and went in his face, and his eyes began to burn; but he said nothing, while the others went on:
"Who is the girl? what is her real name? Some say she is an American; others, that she is Olympia's own daughter, to whom all names are alike; but, then, where was the woman Olympia born? Now and then a word drops from the pretty lips which is purely American; but then she has been all over the world, and has gathered something from all nations, so that one can never make a true guess about her."
"Does this girl look like her?" inquired one of the young men, who had not been at the opera last night.
"No, not exactly," was the answer. "She is taller, more queenly, in fact; quite a different style. This new girl is superb."