Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1913-09-14

pathic doses of talent. You have more
genius more fen sacre. in the tip of any one
of your fingers than they have in their whole
bodiesl"
"Oh, d-a-ld! Mon Dien!' screamed Marat
deprecatingly.
that if | stuck hatpin into Emma here she
would weep tears of 1cewater; would you
not, ma cheYe petite.
Emma hung her head and sighed. She
did not resent Madame's thrust: she even
felt that there was sad possibility of truth
in it. When she raised her head there was
just flicker of the divine fire in her eyes.
Who knows? Perhaps, after all, it would
never be necessary to furnish her with bit
of the shining Marat fingernail!
@Now that have got my hat on, alions"
Still en- masse the songbirds conveyed
them to the door, f1uttered out and down
the staircase, even into the vestibule, and
the remaining lessons for that day were rap
turously sacrificed.
THE trials were held in the vacant audito-
= rum, and the edges of the stage were
fringed with rows of frock-coated men and
furred and brocaded women. Sarisoff was
singing as Madame Lecomte and Marat
passed the obsequious doorkeeper and en-
tered the wings. The young Russians flute
and out across the empty chairs in front.
Marat's heart fell as she heard those perfect
tones; but Madame slyly whispered:
Courage, my child! And when it comes
your turn to sing, if you love me, warm
them up! De Brisac is Gascon; he does
not fancy icicles."
THE group of directors in front of the
prompter's box was discussing Marat
in tones of suppressed enthusiasm. The
stage director was talking earnestly to the
president, and the accompanist, catching
significant word, twisted round on the piano
stool and boldly smiled at her, his eyes full
of admiration. Two or three disappointed
aspirants, among them her late rival,
dropped their heads with pathetic heaviness
over their music rolls as they listlessly
evened the edges of their little piles of music
and seemed waiting for a deferred verdict
of approval. Some had already hastily left
the opera house, and haughtily entering
their fiacres flung themselves passionately
on the sad and sympathetic shoulders Of
mothers or chaperons or sisters or perhaps
dear friends, weeping for the career that was
still in the future.
Marat, the victory hers, stood waiting
with high thrown head for the decision of
the gentlemen of the Opera Comique. The
president and the stage director ended their
fervent conversation. The former went up
to the Polish girl. Taking her hand, and
smiling pleasantly, he gracefully led her back
to the piano.
At whispered command from the presi-
dent the accompanist swung into the open
ing bars of spritely chanson with strong
bacchic tendencies, an old familiar study in
the atelier Lecomte. Flushed with success,
Marat sang like an embodiment of laughter.
tears, love, gloom, light, jealousy, and en-
joyment. All hers was the glamour of flash
ing dark eyes, svelte form, kind and cruel
red lips-and mercurial temper.
Said the stage director in a confidential
whisper to Madame Lecomte, MADAME is
invariably to be congratulated upon her
pupils. The little Russian, now, is charm
ing. She would make a very lovely Elsa.
But the Pole-ah, Madame, what brio, what
elan, what fen sacre! We must have her for
the big part in GARDENERS new opera! Wen
let her sing Conception, wild Spanish jade
who is worse than Garment
TN the cab again, on the way back to
the studio, Marat's arms were lovingly
round Madames neck, her mouth pressed
ecstatically against Madame's fat cheek.
"Ah, dear Madame Lecomte, what dayl
What day of triumph for your naughty
Anna! And | owe it all to you, to you alonel
| can never, never thank YOU enough YOU