I fell—it did start backward, but Mr. Daly was equal to the emergency. "Take off the castors and place the chair hard against the end of the piano; now try!"
I did; the chair was firm as a rock. It was settled; I did as I was told, and fell at the end of the act ever after. And Mr. Daly came and patted me on the back, and said, kindly: "Don't fret; I honestly believe there's something in the little part after all. That speech made me feel creepy."
But the scales on my own eyes were still firm and tight, and all I could see in the play was the strength, power, and passion of the scenes between the Count and Countess, and the probable hit of Mr. Louis James in his part of the Duc de Mirandol. The fate of this play rested in other hands than mine, thank goodness, and I rejoiced in the freedom from responsibility my small part gave me, and planned what I would do when Miss Jewett took Alixe.
The great night came. Another small auditorium awaited the coming of our patrons. There was a smell of scarce dried paint in front of the curtain and of scrubbing-soap behind it; but all was bright and fresh, and the house was soon packed with a brilliant audience. As the play to be produced had but a small cast, and as Mr. Daly was anxious that the entire company should share in this house-warming, he had invited Mr. John Brougham to write a sort of prologue, giving a few apt lines to every member of the company, and then to proceed to the play. This was done—but, alas! Mr. Brougham's work was utterly unworthy of him. There was not one flash of his wonderful wit. He confined himself to comments upon the fire, after this manner; I spoke, saying:
"I can't remember half the things I lost, I fear——"
Mr. Lewis (breaking in). "One article you have not lost——"
C. M. "What?"
Lewis. "'L'Article 47,' my dear."
Then Miss Jewett came forward to exclaim:
"My lovely 'peau de soie,'
The sweetest thing in silk I ever saw!"