Hear that, ye stunning sons of the music-halls--hear that, frequenters of our splendid saloons and brilliant bars! Contrast this barbaric dream of a Russian Blue Book, with the civilized reality of London, where Free Trade in theatres does its work, and the demand is allowed to create the supply of theatrical pabulum for the people, from the Victoria[29] to the penny gaff! The idea of the people being condemned to "healthy and elevating" entertainment; when their betters can revel in the Schneider, the Menken, the Cancan and the Opera Bouffe, the indecent burlesque, the breakdown, and the sensational drama! [Footnote 29: The "Old Vic," now reclaimed very much on the lines of the Russian ideal.] [Illustration: "FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER" MATRON IN STALLS (reads from programme): "'Overture to L'Onfong Prod-eeg.' What does that mean? The prodigious child, eh?" ACCOMPLISHED DAUGHTER (shocked): "Mamma, dear! No--'L'Enfant Prodigue'--it means the Infant Prodigy!!"] The historic invasion of the Russians did not occur till about forty years later. Of the famous French players who delighted English audiences between 1857 and 1874 the last and not the least fascinating was Aimée Desclée, who, after an arduous apprenticeship to her art and ten years of weary waiting, had been discovered by Alexandre Dumas _fils_, and leapt into fame in _La Femme de Claude_, _Diane de Lys_, _Princesse Georges,_ and, above all, as the original Frou-Frou in the play of that name. Of her it was well said by a French critic that "she had a strange, wandering, unbalanced look that revealed the troubled depths of her soul. Her voice had a most peculiar _timbre_, and her abrupt utterances, every word of which stung like the strokes of a whip, fell upon a spellbound audience that hung on every word." After fulfilling a brilliant engagement at the Princess's Theatre in 1873 she returned to Paris to die at the age of thirty-seven. The tragedy of her brief success and the exacting temper of the Parisian public are well summed up in _Punch's_ memorial tribute:-- But too late came the harvest of her pains; The roots of Death had struck deep in her heart; And what cares Death for glory or for gains, Guerdon of that short life, so spent for Art? And she was dying, with the pitiless cry Of box and pit and gallery in her ear, "Give us thy life, but act, and, after, die; It is to live with thy life we are here."