Again those tones floated out from the past; musical, soft! The marquis trembled. Did not the man notice? No; he was still looking gravely before him. Dolt; did he not remember? Could he not recall the times beyond number when he had heard that voice; in the ivy-covered cottage; in the garden of English roses?
Suddenly the valet uttered an exclamation; the stolid aspect of his face gave way to an obvious thrill of interest.
“My lord!” he cried.
“An excellent actress, François; an excellent actress!” said the marquis, rising. “Is that my coat? Get it for me. What are you standing there for? Your arm! Don’t you see I am waiting?”
Overwrought and excitable, he did not dare remain for the latter portion of the drama; better leave before the last act, he told himself, and, dazed by the reappearance of that vision, the old man fairly staggered from the box.
The curtain fell for the last time, and Barnes, with exultation, stood watching in the wings. She had triumphed, his little girl; she had won the great, generous heart of New Orleans. He clapped his hands furiously, joining in the evidences of approval, and, when the ovation finally ceased and she approached, the old manager was so overcome he had not a word to say. She looked at him questioningly, and he who had always been her instructor folded her fondly to his breast.
“I owe it all to you,” she whispered.
“Pooh!” he answered. “You stole fire from heaven. I am but a theatrical, bombastic, barnstorming Thespian.”
“Would you spoil me?” she interrupted, tenderly.