“‘You will soon get well, Madam,’ I managed to stammer.
“‘No! Do you care? It is pleasant to have one true, kind friend in the world; one who makes a woman believe again in the nobility of human nature. My life has been sad as you know. I should not regret giving it up. Nor should I fear to die. I can not think that God will be unkind to one who has done her best; at least, has tried to. Yet there is one thing that makes me crave for life. My child––what will she do––poor, motherless, fatherless girl––all alone, all alone––.
“‘Madam, if I may––will you permit me to care for her? If I might regard her as my child!’
“How tightly she held my hand at that! Her eyes seemed to blaze with heavenly fire. But let me not dwell further upon the sad events that led to the end of her noble career. Something of her life I had heard; something, I surmised. Unhappy as a woman, she was majestic as an actress; the fire of her voice struck every ear; its sweetness had a charm, never to be forgotten. But only to those who knew her well were revealed the unvarying truth and simplicity of her nature. Even as I write, her spirit, tender and steadfast, seems standing by my side; I feel her eyes in the darkness of night, and, when the time comes––and often of late, it has seemed not far––to go from this mere dressing-room, the earth, into the higher life––”
A knock at the door rudely dispelled these memories. For a moment the manager looked startled, as one abruptly called back to his immediate surroundings; then the pen fell from his hand, and he pushed the book from him to the center of the table.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened and Saint-Prosper entered.
“Am I interrupting you?” asked the soldier, glancing at the littered table.
“Not at all,” answered the manager, recovering himself, and settling back in his chair. “Make yourself at home. You’ll find some cigars on the mantel, or if you prefer your pipe, there’s a jar of tobacco on 261 the trunk. Do you find it? I haven’t had time yet to bring order out of chaos. A manager’s trunks are like a junk-shop, with everything from a needle to an anchor.”