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CAPÍTULO XXX

MEIN RUH’ IST HIN; MEIN HERTZ IST SCHWER!

            THAT night there was a great commotion in the Grand Opera House at Paris.

            Tier above tier jets of garish tapers sparkled, jewels glanced, and fans of brilliant colour twinkled; the eye ached with splendour and variety. Never had there been so magnificent, so fashionable an audience.

            Lady Cairnsmuir bowed from her loge to wits and beauties in all parts of the vast glittering crescent, cavaliers by the score left their seats to render her their homages and to present the social congratulations usual on the dawning of a new year. All deplored the unhappy event which deprived them upon such an evening of Diana Brabazon’s queenly presence.

            “Poor lady! how greatly she would have enjoyed her fair friend’s triumph! They say, you know, that this is to be the culminating night of all the Fräulein’s successes. I know several grandes dames who have brought with them costly gifts which are to be rained at the heroine’s feet when the curtain falls. Yes, yes, the New Year is a great festival in the City of Laughter!”

            “There she is! Ah, the exquisite spirituelle face, how perfectly it realizes Goëthe’s ideal! Never was there seen such a Gretchen, save in the visions of the poet himself!”

            Ah, how they gazed and smiled when their beautiful favourite came tripping forth upon the stage! How the men rose excitedly, how the whole house drew breath with painful rapture! What an extatic furore ran through the auditorium, like a rolling wave of welcome from lip to lip, from eye to eye, – none the less genial or emotional

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because French etiquette forbade a noiser demonstration! It was an ovation, a triumph, with which Paris hailed its darling on this last night of the year – this night that closed so auspiciously the æsthetic glories of her first campaign!

            Timidly she Iifted her eyes to the Cairnsmuir box. Tristan was not there. Not there? absent on this night of all the nights in the year?

            For a minute a sickly disappointment dulled her senses, but beneath the spell of the divine art so selfish a weakness could not long abide; speedily she abandoned herself to the enthusiasm of the evening, and losing her sorrow in her song, poured out her pure bright soul in rippling notes of such surpassing power and sweetness as might well have befitted the marvellous choirs of Paradise.

            “With a flutter of excitement the house awaited the crowning aria of the night in which Gretchen, alone and forsaken, laments with pathetic melody the griefs of her betrayed and wounded heart.

            Amid a profound hush the much-desired scene opened and Adelheid Stern appeared; the plaintive music rose and swelled, – the whole vast theatre listened in enchanted silence. For the second time in the song she came to the touching melancholy refrain which runs so simply in the German words of Goëthe’s exquisite verse:

                                               “Mein Ruh’ is hin,

                                               Mein Hertz ist schwer,

                                               Ich finde sie nimmer,

                                               Und nimmer mehr!”

            So sweetly and tenderly flowed the clear soft tide of her flutelike voice that many eyes about her grew dim with sympathetic tears, and here and there among the great assemblage, within gold-bedizened, lace-enshrouded bosom – world-worn hearts recurred with throbs of pain to their long-forgotten loves, and mourned anew over buried hopes while that fair woman sang.

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                Suddenly, as she pronounced the last word – while the gaze of the whole theatre was concentrated upon her lifted face, – she sprang from her seat with gleaming horrified eyes and outstretched hands. A shudder thrilled her audience, and a frightened voice from the upper tier cried out that the Fräulein was shot! And so indeed it seemed, but the blow was dealt by an invisible hand! A moment she stood erect, her head thrown back, her lips parted, and her gaze fixed with dreadful intenseness upon vacancy, a moment – and then her whole frame wavered, contracted, and sank with a low dull sound upon the stage!

            There was a rush of feet from the back of the coulisses – a confused rustle and Babel of talk – the music stopped, and the curtain was abruptly lowered. Then, through the buzzing stir of the house an anxious whisper circulates from tier to tier:

            “It is a swoon, the excitement was too great for her, such a strain on her nerves, you understand. No wonder, she always looks so delicate.”

            Hush! here is the manager. What is he going to say? He says, Messieurs et Mesdames, that Fräulein Stern has fainted – that there is no cause for alarm – but, as unhappily she will not be able to resume her part this evening, your generous indulgence, Messieurs et Mesdames, is entreated for Mademoiselle de Perier, who in this unforeseen emergency, has kindly consented to supply the Fräulein’s place.

            Having delivered his speech to this effect, the manager bows himself back into the “flies,” while a faint murmur of generous indulgence pervades the audience; but the real dilletanti feel that the interest of the evening is ended. The glittering assemblage breaks and disperses itself, a frou-frou of silk and tissue sweeps along the line of boxes; carriages are called, and cigar-cases are produced.

            My Lady despatches a ready ambassador behind the scenes to enquire into the cause of Adelheid’s sudden indisposition, and to proffer the use of the Cairnsmuir chariot, or any other assistance which her ladyship

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can render her dear young friend. In about ten minutes, answer is returned that the Fräulein’s attack was quite a transient one, that she is already greatly better, and that much as she feels my Lady’s kind consideration, she prefers returning to the Hotel Bristol with her own attendant, and has already caused her brougham to be summoned. Latest among the prematurely retiring throng went Lady Cairnsmuir and Vane Vaurien.

            My Lady drove to her hotel.

            Vane Vaurien went to the Maison Rouge.

            But the brougham which carried off the heroine of the night went nowhere near the Hotel Bristol, but whirling rapidly down the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, turned into the Boulevard des Capucines, and finally paused by order of its mistress at that house in the Rue Royale wherein Tristan Le Rodeur was lodged.

            Then the heavy street door opened, swift airy footsteps glided up the stairs; a minute more, and Adelheid Stern, with Nixie eyes and wild witch loveliness, burst like some eerie vision into the midst of the sorrowful group in that upper room, and heedless of the terrified faces round her, fell upon her knees beside the couch.

            “Tristan!” she cried, in a voice that rang like a clarion through the still sombre chamber – Tristan, my Darling! . . .I heard you, – I am come!”

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