For this young girl, so delicately fair, so frail
of frame, possessed the soul of a warrior.
The sale of tickets had opened eight days in advance. The agents had
realized big profits. The first night always creates a sensation in
Paris. All the social celebrities were in the audience: and, what is
less usual, many "intellectuals." They wished to testify by their
presence their friendship for Francois Darbois, and to protest against
certain journalists, who had not hesitated to say in print that such a
furore about an actress (poor Esperance) was prejudicial to the
dignity of philosophy.
In a box was the Minister of Belgium, who had been married lately, and
wanted to show his young wife a "first night" in Paris. The First
Secretary of the Legation was sitting behind the Minister's wife.
"Look there, that is Count Albert Styvens," said a journalist,
pointing out the Secretary to his neighbour, a young beauty in a very
_decolletee_ gown.
The neighbour laughed. "Is he as reserved and as serious as he looks?"
she inquired.
"So they say."
"Poor fellow," answered the pretty woman, with affected pity,
examining him through her opera glasses.
Sardou, behind the scenes, was coming and going, arranging a chair,
changing the position of a table, catching his foot in a carpet,
swearing, nervous in the extreme. He made a hundred suggestions to the
manager, which were received with weariness. He entered into
conversation with the firemen.
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