Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1901-09-06

|
81 ace of youth in her gestures and her
voice firm and full of reserve power.
"No, no, you know, Robert Deisle-
But forgive me. This night will be the
last Towering of my life. How CRATE
| full l ami Your portrait is always
there" she broke off, inconsequently,
indicating with her finger portrait
with glowing dedication.
How | have changed" exclaimed
NJ. Delisle.
"But not to me-" sighed Nine. de
Miramoy.
Can you come to the theater to-
morrow at two?"
"Ies, indeed. Oh, the thought of
seeing all that 1 have loved so much!"
"Good-by, then, until tomorrow"
II am your servant, as always" said
the little old woman, with low bow,
as she accompanied the manager to
the stair; and she stood there looking
after him for a long, long time But
her emotion made her forget that
the house was still asleep and that it
was not yet eight o'clock, for she
slammed the door noisily after her,
and, stretching herself on the sofa,
began to hum love-song. Then she
sighed. "Thank God, there is still
some good in life"
They were exciting days that pre-
ceded the great night. Under the in
fluence of her Jealous emotion Nine.
de Miramoy seemed to be no more
than So She foated as if in a
dream, and, calling up all the warmth
and youth there was in her heart, she
was not idle minute. Visits, re-
hearsals, nothing tired her. She had
insisted that large and striking post
ers, bearing her name in flaming let
ters, should be displayed in her street
and in her room; there she recited
her lines over and over again before
the mirror until she obtained the de-
sired effect, studying her poses and
expressions, scolding, even striking
herself, or approving, smiling amiably
at herself with eyes and lips.
The longed-for evening arrived. The
little old woman seemed like one
awakening from long sleep as she
entered her brightly lighted dressing
room, with it's mirrors all about the
walls. Nine. de Miramoy ran from
one armchair to another, trying them
all.
Suddenly she stopped still in the
center of the room.
"Why, | have forgotten to eat my
dinner! But then l have my flask of
port"
Then, hearing the thousand noises
of the theater, she went out. thread
ed her way through the throng of
costumed personages who stood
about in groups or wandered alone,
mumbling their parts; passed open
doorways where men and women
chatted as they dressed; avoided the
machinists, who were manipulating
tangled mass of pulleys and scenery
in bewildering confusion of orders,
calls. cries, laughter and muffled clat-
ter; and, more and more intoxicated,
found her way to the front of the
immense stage and looked through
the peep-hole at the audience.
Under the lights moved sea Of
blonde boards and bald pates, shining
shirt-fronts and barred shoulders un-
willingly yelled behind waving
cloud of soft feathers. Scarcely ia
miliar face among them, and how
changed!-only the merest vestiges
of the old days.
Nine. de Miramoy, feeling sudden
chill at her heart, hurried back to
her dressing-room. Passively she let
herself be dressed and made ready
for her part.
"Why is it all so changed, and so
quickly?" she wondered.
But at last she stood arrayed in all
the glory of her peplum, looking as
young as in her palmiest days. When
she stood before the glass, she could
scarcely believe her eyes. She stepped
back and then went close up to the
mirror, which seemed to have ac-
quired magical properties; she smiled,
she showed her teeth, she examined
herself closely. Heavens! Was it pos
sible? was she dreaming? No. She
shivers like wet little bird in a
ray of sunshine. Her heart is beat
ing wildly. She asks to be left alone
for moment, and once alone, she
casts a swift glance around, hurries
to her poor, everyday gown, searches
hurriedly in the pockets, takes out
little flask, turns to corner, and
stoops down the better to conceal her
self-and drinks. 1t. is the port,
which she has not forgotten, and
which will give her strength She
stands up and waits. She tries her
great scene:
Rome, who has seen your birth"
Alas! her voice is no longer sure.
Nine. de Miramoy shivers and sinks
into a chair to think.
"Mme. de Miramoy," they call,
presently, sit is your turn to go on"
But she does not move. There is
knock. She decides, rises, opens
! the door.