‘Let us walk,’ she said quickly. ‘I am so excited, and a breath of this cool air will do me good.’
‘As you please, my dear,’ returned White, and, clasping her hand more firmly upon his arm, he led her through the ever-moving crowd. What a crowd it was! Men and women, old and young, rich and poor, mingling together in one perpetual eddy; shivering, starving, half-clad children; brazen street-walkers disporting in finery even more tawdry than that which the actress had cast aside, and pale-faced outcasts glaring ghastly beneath the gaslight, clutching at their rags, and forcing their parched heated lips to offer up a curse to Him who had made them what they were.
Still veiled, still clinging closely to White’s arms, Madeline passed slowly on, watching the crowd surging up and down beside her, seeing the faces pale, haggard, gaunt, and famine-stricken, flashing like phantoms. Now and then, as some weary woman passed beneath the glare of the gaslight, Madeline would pause and instinctively stretch forth her hand, as if to offer succour; but White, tightening his hold upon her, soothed the strange agitation which he knew to be rising, and firmly urged her on. Thus they left the trouble and the turmoil behind them, and passing into a sequestered square, with green trees around them, and the starlit heaven above, paused for a moment.
Madeline raised her veil, and looked upward.
‘To think,’ she said, ‘that such a bright sky should shine upon so much wickedness and sorrow! I wonder if any people are ever happy until they die?’
‘Happy! Of course they are. But come, we are lingering too long. I mean to drink a bottle of champagne to-night to celebrate your success, my dear.’
Madeline said no more, but quietly suffered him to lead her home.
It was certainly not such a home as one would picture as the abode of the queen of the night; for White, whose circumstances had never been affluent, had been brought lower than ever of late through the demands made upon him by Madeline, whom it had been necessary to fit out superbly before she could be presented to the gaze of the world. Still, poor as they were, the rooms were dear to Madeline, and as she entered them she felt stealing over her a sense of security and peace which she had not experienced all that evening before.
The good news had sped quickly, and the welcome given to the young actress was in keeping with all the rest. The table was spread for supper, the solitary bottle of champagne stood at the head, and poor Madame de Berny, now very worn and much aged, stood upon the narrow, dimly lighted stairs, with outstretched hands and quivering voice.
‘Ah, my dear,’ she said, as she drew Madeline into the bedroom, and assisted her to remove her hat and cloak, ‘to think that only a few years ago you stood at my poor dear Marie’s knee, and listened, with open eyes and mouth, to the stories she used to tell about the theatre. Now, you are a leading lady, and she—oh! my poor girl!’