The stage-door keeper had orders to let him "come behind," and so he was
already waiting at the door of my little boudoir by the time Helene had
died, the curtain had gone down, and Maxine de Renzie had been able to
leave the stage.
As we went together into the room, he caught both my hands, crushing
them tightly in his, and kissing them over and over again. But his face
was pale and sad, and a new fear sprang up in my heart, like a sudden
live flame among red ashes.
"What is it, Raoul?--why do you look like that?" I asked; while inside
my head another question sounded like a shriek. "What if some word had
come to him in the theatre--about the treaty?"
Then I could have cried as a child cries, with the snapping of the
tension, when he answered: "It was only that terrible last scene,
darling. I've seen you die in other parts. But it never affected me like
this. Perhaps it's because you didn't belong to me in those days. Or is
it that you were more realistic in your acting to-night than ever
before? Anyway, it was awful--so horribly real. It was all I could do to
sit still and not jump out of the box to save you. Prince Cyril was a
poor chap not to thwart the villain.
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