“Je vis le lendemain non plus au bord de l’onde Mais assise au chemin la jeune fille blonde! Je vis qu’ils étaient deux--A! deux âmes sont joyeuse! Comme il était heureux! Comme elle était heureuse! Et moi, dans mon bonheur--de les voir si content Je me mis a pleurer! Comme on pleure à vingt ans! Et moi! dans mon bonheur--de les voir si content Je me mis a pleurer! Comme on pleure à vingt ans!” Lord Delaval--_fanatico per la musica_--listens enthralled as the last sweet, sad, soft notes die away on his ear. Once more shouts of “Marguerite _la Blonde aux yeux noir_!” fill the house with deafening roar, and coming closer to the footlights with a beaming smile on her scarlet lips, for the first time her eyes fall on the box where Delaval sits leaning forward. Her glance rests an instant upon him. She utters a sharp cry, her face through its rouge turns ghastly white, and Marguerite Ange drops senseless on the floor. In a moment, however, the curtain falling, hides her from view. “What ails her?” cries Shropshire, as much concerned as if he had not his Countess--(for whom he has gone through a good deal)--demanding his allegiance and fidelity. “It’s the infernal excitement of all the noise that’s done her up,” Silverlake says. “Isn’t she more like a witch than a woman? She’d take the heart out of a man whether he would or no!” But Delaval answers nothing. His face is very pale, and there is a queer dazed look in his eyes which is foreign to them, and a shiver passes over his whole frame as the manager comes forward, announcing that Mademoiselle Ange having recovered her indisposition, will sing again. After a few minutes she comes forward and sings a short but passionate love song, in which her voice falters, and tears glitter in her magnificent eyes. The cheers and cries from the motley audience would have gladdened the ears of the greatest Diva that ever lived. And they bring triumph to the heart of this woman, a mighty triumph that gleams from her glance as she fixes one long look on Delaval’s face when she makes her final curtsey and retires. “What sort of a woman is this Marguerite Ange?” Lord Delaval asks carelessly, though he is conscious that his heart throbs a little faster than usual as he awaits the answer. “She’s not over particular, is she?” “Particular,” laughs Shropshire, “did you ever know an Alcazar songstress particular? You might as well expect prudery from Rose Stanley at the Holborn, or from little Kitty Mortimer at the Pavilion. Do you imagine her salary at the Alcazar pays for her charming _au premier_ in the Rue Tronchet, her carriage and _haute ecole_ cattle, the jewels and laces and velvets that are the very soul and essence of the beautiful Marguerite. Sapristi! You must have forgotten the world and its ways.” “And the parable of the lamb and the wolves,” Silverlake adds. “I defy any woman making head against the current of lovers that Marguerite has.”