costume were very nearly lost. There was a sort of gauze cloud wreathing about Stephanie; her long black hair was streaming behind her; her hands were clasped upon her breast; her splendid eyes were turned upward. She looked very handsome, beautiful indeed, while it was part of the effect to make the light—almost blinding in its vividness—appear to emanate from her, until she seemed to hang gleaming in the air like an incarnate jewel. George Martin could not help vieing with the Frenchman in applauding the scene. He gave a glance at Wilford’s box to see if he was still present, but he was unable to discover him—possibly because the audience portion of the theatre was darkened for the enhancement of the moonlight scene. Suddenly there was a lull in the applause—a murmur—a gasp! Mademoiselle Boisfleury was to descend into the summit of Mount Pretroska, it was true, but surely not with such rapidity? Was it accidental—was it intentional? Some continued to applaud, nay, clapped their hands the more violently in their regret at what seemed a growing apathy in the house. There were cries for Mademoiselle Boisfleury, then shouts of “Bravo!” “Order!” “Shame!” “Grimshaw!” “Sit down!” “Stephanie!” &c.
“There is something wrong, surely,” Martin whispered to the Frenchman.
“Yes, the rope must have broken—I knew it would.”
Martin turned to him quickly, looking at him inquiringly.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” the Frenchman answered the glance, bowing and smiling. “You flatter my intelligence. I did not know that the rope would break to-night.” He added, to himself, “Enfin, then, behold me present when the accident has occurred!”
The conviction that there were was something wrong grew upon the house. The thing was evident in the looks of M. Anatole, who had given up his ballet attitude, and was now indulging in poses natural, if not graceful. He was turning from one side to the other to get instruction from the people in the wing as to what he should do next. Mademoiselle Blondette was clearly shivering with fright, was holding Anatole’s arm tightly with both her hands, speaking to him, looking beseechingly at him—at the prompter. It was quite certain that there was something wrong. A loud cry arose in the upper part of the house. From that point of view many spectators could perceive the figure of Mademoiselle Boisfleury. She must have struck against the scenery in her descent, the rope probably breaking, and then been precipitated to the stage. She was lying, half hidden by a set piece, at the back of the stage. In quiet moments a low moaning could be heard to proceed from the spot; she was no longer the radiant première danseuse of the continental theatres—she was simply a poor woman in a huddle of crumpled, soiled muslin, the victim of an accident, grievously hurt. The lime light had been withdrawn, the stage was very dark; still this was perceived; then a small crowd of carpenters, scene-shifters, and ballet-girls, men and women, hurried on to the stage, and the curtain came down—not with the slow regularity of its usual descent, but with an abrupt scramble. All this takes some lines to tell, but little more than two minutes intervened between the accident and the dropping of the curtain.
The audience looked at each other. The evening’s entertainment was over, but could they go in this way? Some hurried off at once, it is true, with white, sickened faces, but the rest remained, talking earnestly in groups; men hitherto strangers, who had sat speechless next to each other, were now discussing the accident as though they had just discovered they were really intimates of the longest standing. Some stood on seats—there was a disposition to hoot and groan. Some obstinate and obtuse people still persisted in applauding. At last there was a tolerably unanimous cry for “Grimshaw!” which strengthened as it went on, and grew more and more angry.
A well-dressed gentleman, holding in his hand a very glossy hat (it is said that at the T. R. Long Acre a glossy hat is always kept ready in the wings for those who make apologies, or are called to receive applause), Tacker, the stage-manager, appeared before the curtain. His look was dignified and serious, his manner irreproachably polite. He was expressly engaged to make apologies, of which Grimshaw himself was quite incapable, though he liked to go on now and then in a rough bonhomie sort of way, to show himself, receive applause, and smile and bow to the audience. There was immediate silence for Tacker. He held his hat gracefully in his left hand—his right was of course pressed upon his heart. He glanced up and down, right and left, so as to include the whole audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I regret to inform you that an accident, not, as it is believed of a serious nature—” (oh! oh! from the back of the pit. Tacker glared fiercely at that quarter, and was loudly applauded by the stalls). “Not,” he repeated sternly, “it is believed of a serious nature, has happened to Mademoiselle Boisfleury. The management have to request, therefore, under these circumstances, the indulgence a British audience has never hesitated to give. The audience are requested to allow the performances to come to a close at once. The cause of the accident shall be searchingly investigated, and provision made against it recurrence. In any case, the management have the pleasure to announce that the new ballet will be performed to-morrow and every evening until further notice.”
What could the house do but applaud Tacker and go home?
“Hist!” said the Frenchman to Martin. “Let us go round to the back and make inquiries. I will arrange.”
Martin looked at Wilford’s box, it was empty. He accompanied Monsieur Chose.
“Well, this is just my luck,” said a sturdy gentleman, elbowing his way out of the pit. “I come here for abstraction and recreation, under the pressure of great calamity at home. What happens? A rope breaks, or something goes wrong, and a woman breaks her neck—don’t tell me she hasn’t broken her neck—I’d take my oath of it; and a good-looking woman, too, in very nice order and preservation; a highly respectable
