I pass to the grand ballet. The stage is full of the Amazons and coryphees, and all the premiers are in the wings, Westmael looking sadder and more weary than ever; Venturola full of determination and talking chain-lightning at the ballet master; Fontana quietly walking about, and now and then rising on her toes; Mazzeri, Adrian, Oberti, Negri and Guerrero, all anxious, for thunderbolts have fallen ere this out of the clear sky, and who knows but one of them may get an encore? Little Schlager has already had her encore and gone off the stage with an approving pat on the head from the ballet-master, with her mother's face beaming with satisfaction, and her own lit up with triumph. Encore is the magic word which incites them all. The ballet is drawing to a close. Only Venturola and Westmael are left. Venturola has outdone herself, and her fine _diminuendo_ whirl has gained for her not only a bouquet but the coveted encore. She is satisfied, and in her nervous manner she chatters French, German and English to everybody. The familiar music of Westmael's brief closing solo strikes up. She is standing, as at the first, quietly in the wing. She has paid no attention to the dance. By a stranger she would have been taken only for a listless observer. She is evidently in pain and very sick to-night, and the hard, dry cough grates upon the ear, but at the first bar of the music her face lights up and she springs upon the stage with no trace of trouble. Every movement is perfect, from the dainty, spirited, bold walk upon the toes to the final pose, and there is no mistaking the encore that follows. The encore does not seem to have any charm for her to-night, but the audience compel it, and by a tremendous effort of the will she repeats. I say by a tremendous effort, for as she returns she instantly relapses into her old state. Her breath comes and goes spasmodically and her chest is thumping as if a sledge-hammer were at work within it. She staggers along a few steps and faints, and pitying hands carry her to her room. To-morrow night she will be herself again, but to-night it has been a burden. It would not be proper for me to disclose the workings of the last, or Transformation Scene; and if it were, I would not strip off the romance, grace and beauty that surround and pervade it. I can only admire the skill, taste and knowledge of effects--the genius which with the slightest of materials can produce an illusion so brilliant and captivating, both to the eye and ear. It requires a genius akin to that of the best worker in oils, and a taste and imagination of the highest order.