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Show L'ETOILE PERDIT <br><br> BY HELEN LUQUEEN <br><br> "The gentleman has fainted, mother. Look!" <br><br> "Fainted? Who? Where, Willie?" and Mrs. Bennett glanced in eager, vulgar curiosity around the crowded theater. <br><br> "Why, the gentleman in the opposite private box," returned the young lady. "I have been watching the party ever since they came in; he is so dark and distinguished looking and the lady so elegant." <br><br> "Yes, he seems to have fainted. No, see!" replied Mrs. Bennet, "he is sitting up again. But heavens! how pale he is, and with what a ghastly smile he puts away madam's wet handkerchief and fan." <br><br> "Who on earth can they be?" queried her daughter. <br><br> The question was answered by her brother Charley, who Millie declared was a walking encyclopedia of town knowledge. <br><br> "They are tourists, and stopping for a few days at the Ridge House," said he, "and are from France, Germany, or some other foreign land." <br><br> "Very definite!" laughed his sister. "But what a face he just turned in this direction! It was positively savage." <br><br> "He is evidently annoyed by the vulgar curiosity of the people. Everybody is staring at them. Do look in another direction, Millie. See how the clods are gaping. The Lord deliver me from a town that apes city ways with country manners." <br><br> The subject of criticism was Major Laveseur - the lady with him a widowed sister. This much was known at the hotel where they were stopping for a time in an overgrown country town, boasting of a couple of (rather small) churches and a theater of pretentious dimensions, for the size of the place, and by way of contrast, the pride and exceedingly better patronized of the institutions. <br><br> Madam Ponsetta had said to her brother, after their early dinner: "How in the world, Claude, are we to manage the long evenings? If we do not find something to kill time it will be the death of us!" <br><br> "Did I tell you, Pauline, that I had taken a box at the theater?" <br><br> "Theater!" and Madam widely opened her eyes. "Now I know, Claude, you have designs upon me. Think of being cooped up in a sweltering little hole upon such a night as this!" <br><br> "Of course it is not as grand as those in Paris, but it is still quite creditable, and boasts an interesting bill for the night - an Italian troupe, or something of the kind - a new prima donna getting accustomed to the stage and the public, it is said, preparatory to a grand debut in the great city. At any rate, it will panser le tempe, as you say, ma chere." <br><br> Accordingly, at the appointed hour they were seated in their box at the theater, the exposure of all eyes; the elegant attire and brilliant jewels of Madam quite distracting attention from the actors. <br><br> She sat fanning herself with a well bred expression of ennui, stared at by the Bennetts from the opposite box, as well as the lesser lights, while her brother, sitting by her side, commented upon the performance for her amusement. <br><br> "It is a positive affliction, Claude," returned she, with an expression of disgust. "Good heavens! what a voice that fellow has! It is too shallow to be bass and too heavy to be anything else. And then the nasal twang!" <br><br> "But you will admit his pose being that of Apollo," answered the major, "and what is voice to a shapely pair of limbs?" <br><br> Madam shrugged her shoulders. But the next instant she leaned forward with an expression of interest. The young debutante had appeared upon the stage. <br><br> "It is the prima donna," whispered the major, also becoming interested. <br><br> At the footlights stood a young creature so delicately beautiful as to seem almost unreal. She was clad in a cloud-like dress of the purest white, revealing the lovely contour of neck and breast, and the supple roundness of arms. The web of bright hair was thrown back from a low, sweet brow, and floated as a golden veil down her back. Her eyes were large, dark, and luminous as stars. <br><br> "Can such a fragile creature as that sing?" questioned Madam Ponsetta, in a whisper. <br><br> She glanced at the face of her brother, noticed that he was pale as death, and staring at the cantatrice with a dazed, far-away expression. But before she had time to again address him, there burst upon the stillness such a gush of song that it held the house spell-bound. <br><br> It was at the outset very soft, though clear as a flute, and had an uncertain quivering, as that of a bird warbling for the first time in its little life. Then it gradually rose to such tones of liquid melody, so full and so tender as to entrance the ear of every listener, and breaking into sudden flights, and soaring from height to height. <br><br> She stood there, the sweet, beautiful young songstress, forgetting the gaping crowd, lost to all criticism, conscious only of a heaven born power, with her hands clasped upon her bosom, and singing for the very love of it. <br><br> Every one sat wrapt and breathless. Madam Ponsetta forgot to move her jeweled fan, and the Bennetts neglected their gossip. And when the song had ceased, and the girl had been led from the stage, with her eyes sparkling as diamonds [unreadable], the well merited applause came. <br><br> "Just think, Claude, of such a voice being sacrificed to such an audience! Why, it equals - mon Dieu! What is the matter! He has fainted!" <br><br> The exclamation was uttered simultaneously with on from the box occupied by the Bennetts. Madam gave some directions to her maid, Marie, who sat at the rear of the box with her wraps, and instantly a glass of water was brought. She saturated her handkerchief, sprinkled the pallid face, and very soon her brother revived. <br><br> "La Petite dame!" he muttered, not as yet himself. <br><br> "You are ill, Claude. It is bad air; let us retire." <br><br> He arose with an effort, and gathered strength as the maid wrapped a cloak about his sister. A few minutes later they were in the street, and for the remainder of the evening the Bennetts could make their comments in the face of the empty box. <br><br> "Bon nuit, sister," said the major, when at the door of Madam's room. <br><br> "Will you not come in, Claude, and have a biscuit and a glass of wine? You are looking very ill indeed." <br><br> "No, Pauline, I only require air, so I will take a walk. Good night." <br><br> He went out and began pacing the silent streets. His thoughts were busy with the past. He was back again in Paris, with its gardens, palaces, and river Seine. Memory traveled swiftly through the shadows of a dark street near the Louvre, up a winding stair, which ended upon a balcony filled with flowers, opening into a long, low room, gloomy and dingy, but brightened by the presence of a fair young girl. <br><br> Her father was a violinist at one of the theaters, and Juliet the solace of his lonely life. It was she who placed his great arm chair by the fire, with his slippers ready for his return, always remained up, no matter how late the hour, to pour his wine and kiss him good night. <br><br> And, well did Claude Lavaseur remember the time when accident took him to that humble home - the repeated visits subsequently made, and the lingering many hours while Juliet's father was at rehearsal; and how he became teacher and companion to the young girl, until the dark eyes brightened with glad welcome when he came, and grew soft and humid with regret when he departed, taking ever with him the picture of her rare beauty, until she had entirely filled his heart. <br><br> Then came the rude awakening from the pleasant dream. One day he found not Juliet, but her father awaiting him. <br><br> "I have sent my daughter away, Monsieur Lavaseur, that I may speak to you," he said. "She is always sad when you are not here and no longer like her merry self - she is ever dreaming. Monsieur, have you ever spoken to her of love?" <br><br> "Never!" exclaimed Lavaseur, indignantly. <br><br> "Not with lips, Monsieur. Ah, no! that were to blind yourself; but there are a thousand other ways. There are tones of the voice more eloquent than words, and glances of the eye more powerful than mere speech." <br><br> Lavaseur stood silent and abashed, while the old man continued: "You have won the love of my child from me. She no longer greets me with eager fondness, but flushes and pales when your step sounds upon the stairs, and her heart beats more quickly when she knows you have come. I say to you, Monsieur, that you must not see my child any more, and I pray God she may forget you." <br><br> "What if I would make her my wife?" said Monsieur. <br><br> "From her station to thine she could not be transplanted. She would be as a caged bird, and your people would look down on her. No, you are rich and noble - we poor and humble. Adieu, Monsieur. May you be as happy as you have made us miserable. Go your way, I command you." <br><br> That night sleep never came to Lavaseur. Haunted by the vision of Juliet sorrowing for him he stayed away for a day. Then his resolution was fixed. He could not live without his little French violet. She should be transplanted out of her unattractive home into his own beautiful one, where she would bloom with new fragrance and loveliness. <br><br> He hastened to the house and up the oft-trodden stairs. She had removed her plants. Was she fearful of the early frosts? The door was fastened, and as he stood there with his hand upon the latch, the little old concierge hobbled out and told him that Monsieur and his daughter had moved away, and it was in vain to question. All he could ascertain was that they had gone, no one knew whither. <br><br> These things floated through the mind of Lavaseur as he walked the streets that night. He recalled with a shiver the bitterness of his disappointment and his many quests in search of the "lost violet" and her father. They had dropped out of his life as a star out of the sky, leaving no trace. Even the orchestra of the theatre at which the father played knew nothing of him. <br><br> And now when Lavaseur had given up all hopes of ever finding her - had obtained partial forgetfulness, she had burst upon him in this strange land, and in the most obscure place, and many were the questions he asked himself. Should he renew the acquaintance? She would call it unwise, and his proud, aristocratic friends turn away in contempt. <br><br> At length he found himself opposite the theatre. He would at least watch her exit. There were not many carriages in waiting. One from the hotel at which the troupe were stopping was standing and the side entrance. He took a position near, and presently a white-cloaked and hooded figure was handed into the carriage. With a thrill he recognized Juliet, and like a moth to a light, he followed until she was safely housed. <br><br> "A gentleman wishes to speak with you, Mademoiselle Juliet, but will not send up his card," reported her maid. <br><br> "How strange! Why did you not refer him to my father? Go and say I see no one at this hour, and he must call another time." <br><br> As the maid disappeared Juliet went to the glass of the sitting room allotted to her and began to loosen the masses of her hair, as her temples were hot and throbbing from recent exertion. <br><br> "He still waits," said the maid, returning, "and has sent you this." <br><br> She laid in the white hand of her mistress a little silver bandeau with which she had been accustomed to confine her hair, and which she had given playfully to Lavaseur at their home in Paris. <br><br> Juliet grew rosy, then white, as she recognized the token, and sinking into a chair, said, -<br><br> "You may admit him." <br><br> In a moment Lavaseur was standing before her, holding the little trembling hands, and each speechlessly gazing into the eyes of the other. <br><br> "Had you forgotten me, ma petite mignonne?" he said at length. <br><br> "No, Monsieur Lavaseur, I never forget a friend," she answered, gathering courage. <br><br> "But you can be so cruel to them, Juliet." <br><br> "Cruel?" <br><br> "Yes, very cruel. You left me without even a word of adieu. Was that kind?" <br><br> "I was told by my father that it was best for you that our friendship, that even the knowledge of each other, should come to an end." <br><br> "And now will you say it is best for me to see you no more, when I have loved you so long and so faithfully? Tonight love, when I recognized you, excessive joy made me faint. Will you send me from you, or will you accept me as your allianced husband? Speak, Juliet, I entreat. This suspense must come to an end." <br><br> "Monsier!" <br><br> "Nay, call me Claude, for I see love in your eyes, which bids me hope." <br><br> "Claude, then, if you will have it so; have you reflected?" <br><br> "Not another word, Juliet." <br><br> "But as you must know I am wedded to song, you certainly--"<br><br> "Yes, I recognized your rare talent, but when you are wedded to me you will be a lost star in the firmament of song." "Then I must give up my golden dream, Claude? It was that alone which reconciled me to our separation." <br><br> "Yes, give up everything, my darling, but me." <br><br> The next moment the father of Juliet entered the room to find her clasped to the heart of Lavaseur. <br><br> "She is mine!" asserted the gentle man, triumphantly, releasing the girl and giving his hand to her father. <br><br> "And there is no battling against fate," replied the old man, returning the greeting. <br><br> Madame Pauline was the most difficult to reconcile to the new order of things. In the stormy scene that followed with her brother she called him a traitor to his name and birth, and to her maid she said, in her native tongue: <br><br> "Cette file live a donne duna la - Dieu de veut." (?)<br><br> And surely Juliet had caught not only his fancy but his heart, and the lost star to the musical world proved a gentle, loving wife, while the Bennetts and the rest of the gossips enjoyed a new sensation, and the wedding served them for a seven days wonder. |