“I cannot now, Marquis, indeed, see they wait our entry.”
“Where then can I see you, wilful fay? one never gets a sight of you except at the play: then only for an instant, and you are gone; where do you live?”
“On earth now, in heaven I hope some day,” I smartly answered,—making a faint attempt at wit, to rid myself of this worn out old coxcomb, as I had no wish or intention to receive his visits; and the black mutes raising the litter, we were borne past him on the stage.
Although conscious it was a mere show, still in the last act, the death scene of Ajesha and her lover, the touching pathos of Blanche’s acting, her dreamy, etherial tones, melted me to tears; and I almost cheated myself into the delusion that it was reality. Her death song, ‘Beloved, I die,’ seemed indeed like the last breathings of a dying spirit, and oh, merciful heaven, was it not prophetic of her future fate?
When the curtain fell on the last act, we were loudly called for, and our teacher, proudly elated at this great triumph, led us before the curtain, where we made our curtesies, kissed hands to the audience and passed off.
The morning papers were filled with praises of our performance, and the plot, music, and libretto of the new opera. I laughed myself to sleep that night when I thought of the discomfiture of the count, and his absurd manner; then again, unconsciously and mysteriously, my thoughts reverted to the gentleman I had seen in the royal box—you will think, perhaps, I did not love my affianced lover, since my attention and thoughts could be so easily distracted to another, but in truth I did; I loved him with my whole soul; every wish, every thought was his; this interest in a stranger, a casual spectator of my performance, was not love, nor curiosity; it was a prophetic, a magnetic attraction, a feeling that seemed to tell that in future—but no matter, I will no longer digress; let me strictly adhere to the tenor of my tale.
Blanche had long before fully compensated monsieur for his care of her childhood, and presented him beside with a handsome sum of money. Her industry had accumulated quite a small fortune, within the four years she had been performing for herself; the receipts of our joint acting each night were enormous, and Monsieur Belmont had no reason to regret his patronage of the Viennese beggar girl.
He often said, himself, that we three poor girls had gained him more money and celebrity than any pupils he ever had. As I said in the beginning of my memoir, there is always a motive in these apparently beneficent actions. His motive was to feed, clothe, and educate us brilliantly for the stage; for this purpose it was much better to select girls from the lowest walks of life, friendless, uncared-for ones, unprotected and unprovided for, over whom he could have absolute control. True, he had saved us from starvation, but then he had realized a fortune from our exertions, and I was anxious to absolve myself from my debt of gratitude and obligation, and become mistress of my own actions, which every sensible rational being desires and ought to be.
My teacher knew nothing of my secret engagement. I had not told him, and wondered, when told, what he would say and think of it. Of course he would be astonished at its suddenness, and, in a worldly point of view, at the condescension of Monsieur de Serval. I did not even know that he would give his consent, as he had a right to command my services. I trusted, however, to his uniform kindness to me, to arrange that matter. I felt sure he would not force me to do any thing I did not wish to do; that he would allow me to discontinue my theatrical career if I felt so inclined.