After much further chatter the conductor bowed again, and returned to

his seat. Rosa beckoned to me, and I was introduced to the

stage-manager.

"Allow me to present to you Mr. Foster, one of my friends."

Rosa coughed, and I noticed that her voice was slightly hoarse.

"You have taken cold during the drive," I said, pouring into the sea

of French a little stream of English.

"Oh, no. It is nothing; it will pass off in a minute."

The stage-manager escorted me to a chair near a grand piano which

stood in the wings. Then some male artists, evidently people of

importance, appeared out of the darkness at the back of the stage.

Rosa took off her hat and gloves, and placed them on the grand piano.

I observed that she was flushed, and I put it down to the natural

excitement of the artist about to begin work. The orchestra sounded

resonantly in the empty theatre, and, under the yellow glare of

unshaded electricity, the rehearsal of "Carmen" began at the point

where Carmen makes her first entry.

As Rosa came to the centre of the stage from the wings she staggered.

One would have thought she was drunk. At her cue, instead of

commencing to sing, she threw up her hands, and with an appealing

glance at me sank down to the floor. I rushed to her, and immediately

the entire personnel of the theatre was in a state of the liveliest

excitement. I thought of a similar scene in London not many months

before. But the poor girl was perfectly conscious, and even

self-possessed.

"Water!" she murmured. "I shall die of thirst if you don't give me

some water to drink at once."

There appeared to be no water within the theatre, but at last some one

appeared with a carafe and glass. She drank two glassfuls, and then

dropped the glass, which broke on the floor.

"I am not well," she said; "I feel so hot, and there is that

hoarseness in my throat. Mr. Foster, you must take me home. The

rehearsal will have to be postponed again; I am sorry. It's very

queer."

She stood up with my assistance, looking wildly about her, but

appealing to no one but myself.

"It is queer," I said, supporting her.

"Mademoiselle was ill in the same way last time," several sympathetic

voices cried out, and some of the women caressed her gently.

"Let me get home," she said, half-shouting, and she clung to me. "My

hat--my gloves--quick!"

"Yes, yes," I said; "I will get a fiacre."

"Why not my victoria?" she questioned imperiously.

"Because you must go in a closed carriage," I said firmly.

"Mademoiselle will accept my brougham?"

A tall dark man had come forward. He was the Escamillo. She thanked

him with a look. Some woman threw a cloak over Rosa's shoulders, and,

the baritone on one side of her and myself on the other, we left the

theatre. It seemed scarcely a moment since she had entered it

confident and proud.




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