[Illustration] As he trudged along Cheapside with his troop, who carried the litters and ladders, he recognized Francis Monday walking in the opposite direction, and called out to him,-- "Is that you, Frank?" The young man quickly raised his head, perceiving his former savior, whom he frequently went to see and for whom he cherished a grateful friendship. Perhaps it is time that the young artist's conduct at the Pantheon ball was explained. As must have been already divined, he loved Esther Woodville--loved her with an exclusive, profound passion which was born on the same day that the girl made her appearance upon the stage of Drury Lane. Standing in a corner of the _parterre_, Frank had experienced those devouring sensations which have disturbed twenty-year-old hearts ever since the world began. The passion which actresses inspire in young men of indigent circumstances and timid disposition is the most romantic and delightful of all, since it unites every impossibility and chimera. The footlights seem an obstacle which it is impossible to surmount; possession appears an infeasible, madly absurd dream, the very thought of which produces vertigo. The unrecognized lover is not jealous of the comrades who elbow his idol and speak familiarly with her; he does not even consider the admirer or husband who awaits her behind the scenes. They find in her but a woman like unto all other women. The mistress of his heart is in his sight Juliet, Imogen, Ophelia, Desdemona. She imparts her youth and beauty to the _rôle_, lends poetry and passion to it. From such a _mélange_ is born a perfectly adorable creature who only exists for a few hours for the public, but continues to live for the lover long after the curtain has fallen and when the actress has washed off her paint and is supping with a hearty appetite.