Miss Georgiana Falconer misunderstood the cause of the plaudits, imagined that she was encored, cast down her eyes, and, as soon as there was silence, advanced and recommenced her speech, of which Count Altenberg did not hear one word.
This malicious trick had been contrived by Lady Frances Arlington, to revenge herself on Miss Georgiana Falconer for having prevented her from taking a part in the play. Her ladyship had, in the course of the rehearsals, privately drilled her dog to answer to the name of Osman, when that name was pronounced in Zara’s tragic tone. The dog had been kept out of the way till Zara was in the midst of that speech in which she calls repeatedly on the name of Osman. This trick had been so well contrived, that all but those who were in the secret imagined that the appearance of the dog at this unlucky moment had been accidental. The truth began indeed to be soon whispered in confidence.
But to return to Count Altenberg. At the commencement of the play, when the idea of trying Caroline’s temper had occurred to him, he had felt some anxiety lest all the high expectations he had formed, all the bright enchantment, should vanish. In the first act, he had begun by joining timidly in the general applause of Zara, dreading lest Caroline should not be blessed with that temper which could bear the praises of a rival “with unwounded ear.” But the count applauded with more confidence in the second act; during the third was quite at his ease; and in the fifth could not forgive himself for having supposed it possible that Caroline could be liable to any of the foibles of her sex.
In the mean time Miss Georgiana Falconer, in high spirits, intoxicated with vanity, was persuaded that the Count had returned to his senses; and so little did she know of his character, or of the human heart, as to expect that a declaration of love would soon follow this public profession of admiration. Such was the confusion of her ideas, that she was confident Zara was on the point of becoming Countess of Altenberg.
After the play was over, and a thousand compliments had been paid and received, most of the company called for their carriages. The house emptied fast: there remained only a select party, who were to stay supper. They soon adjourned to the green-room to repeat their tribute of applause to the actors. High in the midst stood Miss Georgiana Falconer, receiving incense from a crowd of adorers. As Count Altenberg approached, she assumed a languishing air of softness and sensibility. The Count said all that could reasonably be expected, but his compliments did not seem quite to satisfy the lady. She was in hopes that he was going to say something more to her taste, when French Clay pressed forward, which he did with an air neither French nor English. He protested that he could not have conceived it possible for the powers of any actress upon earth to interest him for the English Zara; “but you, madam,” said he, “have done the impossible; and now I should die content, if I could see your genius do justice to Zaïre. How you would shine in the divine original, when you could do such wonders for a miserable translation!”
Several gentlemen, and among others Mr. Percy, would not allow that the English translation deserved to be called miserable. “The wrong side of the tapestry we cannot expect should be quite equal to the right side.” said he: “Voltaire pointed out a few odds and ends here and there, which disfigured the work, and required to be cut off; but upon the whole, if I recollect, he was satisfied with the piece, and complimented Mr. Hill upon having preserved the general design, spirit, and simplicity of the original.”
“Mere politeness in M. de Voltaire!” replied French Clay; “but, in effect, Zaïre is absolutely incapable of any thing more than being done into English. For example, will any body have the goodness to tell me,” said he, looking round, and fixing his look of appeal on Miss Caroline Percy, “how would you translate the famous ‘Zaïre!—vous pleurez!”
“Is not it translated,” said Caroline, “by ‘Zara! you weep?’”
“Ah! pardonnez moi!” cried French Clay, with a shrug meant to be French, but which English shoulders could not cleverly execute—“Ah! pardonnez! to my ears now that says nothing.”
“To our feelings it said a great deal just now,” said Caroline, looking at Zara in a manner which was lost upon her feelings, but not upon Count Altenberg’s.