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 298 handsome little fortune by him. Music was his only happiness, but it was beyond his reach now that his childish voice was lost. Nature had allowed him small intelligence, but had given him a sensitive heart.

went off periodically, throwing the composer into alternate fits of hope and dejection, as the stars lent to his music a character to which he had scarcely himself aspired, or the chorus, on the other hand, drove him to despair with false notes and bad time, for which he was also not responsible. Great was the interest excited by the unknown prima donna, who seemed to belong to no one, to come from nowhere. The manager did his best to encourage the mystery, and whilst declaring he knew nothing of her residence, family, &c., assumed an amused air as if he knew a great deal, and could astonish them not a little if he were not bound to secrecy. As for Hugo Rossini Smith, he entirely lost what heart he had. She would make his fortune, increase his reputation; he hardly knew his own airs again, such melody did her exquisite voice lend to them, such passion did she give to his tamest passages. The opera promised to be highly successful, the cognoscenti admitted to the rehearsals raved about Joan of Arc. It is true that the plan of the work reminded them of a well-known modern French drama, and that there was scarcely a movement of which they could not say, “I think I have heard that before,” but then if not original it was not ugly; there were some startling orchestral effects, the scenery and costumes were superb, and, above all, there was Maude Percy, the new English prima donna. The print-shops were full of portraits of Maude Percy, a tall tragic lady, in very complete evening costume, bearing not even a shadow of resemblance to the original save in the arrangement of the hair.

But when Smith expressed his admiration in the most glowing terms (he who had hitherto been content with allowing himself to be admired), the lady cut him short in the coldest language, and seemed entirely bent on understanding music only, and perfecting her operatic part. Once when he went into a rhapsody on her personal charms—her hair, her eyes, her graceful figure—she turned to him quickly, “Ah! if I could only believe in the sincerity of your praise!”

“Well, if you could, what then—speak!"

“Why, it would be a great relief, for others may prove as indulgent as you are, and I am tormented with the idea that after all the public may think it absurd in a woman of thirty to personate the youthful maid of Orleans.”

“The public, it is always the public?” muttered the disappointed composer, biting his dirty nails. “Undoubtedly it is—for whom are we working both of us? For whom am I to act and sing? Who is to establish my profession for me?” and she walked away without awaiting an answer. How unlike the flattery Hugo was in the habit of receiving from the fair sex, and yet he perpetually renewed his court to meet with nothing but coldness, disdain even. One comfort had he—no one was more successful than himself—if he might not be happy he could not be jealous. Only poor Crowe hovered about the stage, and seemed more stupid than ever after each rehearsal; above all, if he won, as he sometimes did, a kind look or word from the bright star.

At length the great night arrived: the little pursy manager bustled to and fro behind the scenes in a very mingled condition of pleasure, anxiety, and excitement. The composer, got up for the occasion in the most romantic style, in vain endeavoured to conceal his agitation, and to keep up the poetical abstracted reverie in which he feigned to live, careless alike of the world's praise or censure.

“A capital house, Smith, capital house! boxes filling fast, and not standing room in the pit; and I understood there was such a crowd at the lobby door that three ladies fainted and one man had his arm broken; quite beyond my hopes, really—but I am afraid it is too good to be true. Come now, you fellows, clear away those pewter pots; can't you wait to get drunk till you have done your work? Ah! there's Dubois—no though, egad I must not call him by his own name, I forgot it was changed to Harrison—he takes his baton. Now for your overture, Smith. What a pretty house it is!”

But Hugo Smith could not distinguish a note of his overture for the intense throbbing of his heart; he stood unconsciously wiping away the cold damp from his forehead with a white handkerchief, till Rossi shoved him aside, and bade him go to his box, for the curtain was just about to be drawn up. The overture was received coldly enough, but loud were the plaudits that greeted the opening scene—the distant village of Domremy, the little inn, the open green where stood a rough stone trough, surmounted by a rude cross. Here were assembled a troop of mercenary soldiers recently beaten by the English, who sang of course the opening drinking chorus, throwing their tin cups into the air and drinking out of them again, after the orthodox habit of stage wine-bibbers. But the last verse was little heeded, for from the inn steps out a slight graceful figure, on whom all eyes are instantly fixed. She watches the soldiers enter the inn-porch, before she slowly advances to the foot-lights as a soft symphony is played. There she stands, in a costume as simple, an attitude as pensive, as Scheffer's beautiful home-sick Mignon, and scarcely looking older. With true taste she takes no notice of the applause called forth by her appearance, nor drops a prima-donna curtsey, forgetful of the peasant maiden. A few words of recitative, descriptive of the miserable state of the subdued country, revealed the richness of her organ, and then burst forth the grand air in which she dedicated herself to the service of France, ending by a prayer for divine assistance. It was no longer an actress, a singer, it was the Maid herself; her dark eyes beaming with inspiration, her slight form glowing with courage, her whole person noble and exalted. From that moment all comments were hushed. The audience followed her, as in a trance, through all the scenes, listening only to her: when she knelt reverentially before the holy visions; when she entered the church at midnight to claim the mysterious sword; when she stood by the Dauphin