known—which jealousy on the lover's part and mischief-making on the part of others had broken off years before—again asserted its sway over her heart, and that she could not face the thought of quitting Paris and him she loved. Whatever the real reason may have been, it evidently needed a more potent incentive than Raphaël could offer to induce her to forsake the critical and appreciative public who had applauded the little Rachel when, poor, unknown and insignificant, she had first appeared before them, and which, in spite of storms and sulks on both sides, she had ruled absolutely for seventeen years. Alas! the incentive was given by the secession of this very public whom she had tyrannised over and on whose fidelity she had relied too confidently. A beautiful young Italian actress, Adelaide Ristori, appeared on the boards of the Italian Opera House, in the part of Francesca da Rimini, on the 24th May 1855. Her success was immediate and unqualified, as great as anything Rachel herself had ever achieved, and the more wonderful, seeing that only one-fourth of the audience understood a word of the language in which she acted.
All the enemies Rachel had made in her profession—and their name was legion—sang the praises of the new star. She was not only the most admirable of actresses, but the most adorable of women, generous, considerate of her fellow actors and actresses, womanly, pure, simple—possessing every good quality, in fact, the old idol had not. Clésinger, the sculptor, said with enthusiasm, after he had seen her, "I will break the statue of Tragedy I have made, for Ristori has taught me it was only the statue of Melodrama." Rachel had been his model for the Tragic muse.
Legouvé, whom Rachel had treated so cavalierly on
