The stage manager shouted out some directions from his box. A gentleman in faultless morning clothes, who seemed to have been thoroughly enjoying the interlude, suddenly adopted the puppetlike walk of a footman. Other actors, who had been whispering together in the wings, came back to their places. Louise advanced alone, a little languidly, to the front of the stage. At the first sound of her voice M. Graillot, nodding his head vigorously, was soothed.
Her speech was a long one. It appeared that she had been arraigned before a company of her relatives, assembled to comment upon her misdeeds. She wound up with a passionate appeal to her husband, Mr. Miles Faraday, who had made an unexpected appearance. M. Graillot's face, as she concluded, was wreathed in smiles.
"Ah!" he cried. "You have lifted us all up! Now I feel once more the inspiration. Mademoiselle, I kiss your hand," he went on. "It is you who still redeem my play. You bring back the spirit of it to me. In you I see the embodiment of my Thérèse."
Miles Faraday gave a little sigh of relief and glanced gratefully toward Louise. She nodded back to him and gave her hand to the Frenchman, who held it to his lips.
"You flatter me, M. Graillot," she said. "It is simply that I feel the force of your beautiful words. Thérèse is a wonderful conception! As to those disputed passages—well, I feel myself in a very difficult position. Artistically, I am entirely in accord with you, and yet I understand exactly what Mr. Faraday means from the commercial point of view. Let us submit the matter to the prince. He knows something of both sides of the question."
The Prince of Seyre, who was seated in the orchestra-leader's chair, looked reproachfully toward Louise.
"Is this fair?" he protested. "Remember that I am more than half a Frenchman, and that I am one of our friend's most faithful disciples. I realize the delicacy of the situation, and I understand Mr. Faraday's point of view. I tell you frankly that the thought of an empty theater appals me. It is not the money—I am sure you all know that—but there isn't a single man or woman in the world who can do his best unless he or she plays to a full house. Somehow or other, we must secure our audience."
"It really comes to this," Faraday intervened. "Shall we achieve a purely artistic triumph and drive the people away? Or shall we—at the expense, I admit, of some of the finest passages in M. Graillot's superb drama—compromise the matter and keep our box-office open? In a more humble way I hope I also may call myself an artist; and yet not only must I live myself, but I have a staff of employees dependent upon me."
Graillot waved his hand.
"So! No more!" he exclaimed grandiloquently. "The affair is finished. My consent is given. Delete the lines! As to the scene laid in the bedroom of madame, to-night I shall take up my pen. By noon to-morrow I will give you a revision which will puff out the cheeks of the Philistines with satisfaction. Have no fear, cher ami Faraday! Mothers shall bring their unmarried daughters to see our play. They shall all watch it without a blush. If there is anything to make the others think, it shall be beneath the surface. It shall be for the great artist whom it is my supreme joy to watch," he went on, bowing to Louise, "to act and express the real truth of my ideas through the music of innocent words."