She determined that she would go to that performance, though the manager assured the public, in large letters, that no one of her order could possibly be admitted. And she declared "that she could sit out that or any other play without tears. That no amount of play-acting could move her, unless it was to laughter."
And so the night came, and the best seat in the best box in all that crowded theatre was occupied by a woman of forty-five, who looked about thirty-eight, who, but for the fixed, immovable colour in her cheeks and her somewhat too large and too numerous diamonds, might from her black silk, rich dark furs, and her dignified bearing have passed for an honest woman.
She watched the first act with a somewhat supercilious manner, but the second act found her wiping her eyes—very cautiously; there was that unvarying colour to think of. The
third act found her well back in the shadow of the box curtain, and the last act she watched with a face of such fixed determination as to attract the wondering comment of several of the actors.
When the curtain fell, one of them remarked, "I'd like to know what that woman will do in the next few hours?"
This is what she did. Keeping back till the house was nearly empty, she left the theatre alone. Then she engaged a carriage—of which there were very, very few in that city of the mountains, where the people did most of their going and coming on horseback—and had herself conveyed to her home, ablaze with light and full of laughter; and bidding the driver wait, she entered quietly and went swiftly to her own apartment, where a man in slippers and dressing-gown sat in a big armchair, sleeping over the evening paper.
She lost no time, but aroused him at once, shaking him by the shoulder, and in cold, curt tones ordered him "to rise and dress for the street, and to go with her."
[Illustration: Clara Morris in the 1st Act of "Camille"]
But he objected, asking: "Why the deuce he should go out that bitter night? And was she a fool, or did she take him for one?"