“The end of it!” he repeated, fixing his glance upon the captious dandy. “The beginning, you mean! The beginning of her triumphs!”
“Oh, have your own way!” answered the disconcerted critic.
Mauville deliberately turned his back. “And such dunces sit in judgment!” he muttered to the scholar.
“Curse me, Mauville’s in a temper to-night!” said the spark in a low voice. “Been drinking, I reckon! But it’s time for the next act!”
Punches and juleps were hastily disposed of, and the imbibers quickly sought their places. This sudden influx, with its accompanying laughter and chattering, 332 aroused the marquis from his lethargy. He started and looked around him in bewilderment. The noise and the light conversation, however, soon recalled his mind to a sense of his surroundings, and he endeavored to recover his self-possession.
Could it be possible it was but a likeness his imagination had converted into such vivid resemblance? A sudden thought seized him and he looked around toward the door of the box.
“François!” he called, and the valet, who had been waiting his master’s pleasure without, immediately appeared.
“Sit down, François!” commanded the marquis. “I am not feeling well. I may conclude to leave soon, and may need your arm.”
The servant obeyed, and the nobleman, under pretense of finding more air near the door, drew back his chair, where he could furtively watch his man’s face. The orchestra ceased; the curtain rose, and the valet gazed mechanically at the stage. In his way, François was as blasé as his master, only, of course, he understood his position too well to reveal that lassitude and ennui, the expression of which was the particular privilege of his betters. He had seen many great actresses and heard many peerless singers; he had delved after his fashion into sundry problems, and had earned as great a right as any of the nobility to satiety and defatigation in his old age, but unfortunately he was born in a class which may feel but not reveal, and mask alike content and discontent.