'It is a disused door,' she said. 'It will not open.' Her tone was so indifferent that Margaret paid little attention to the
words, and turned away to listen to the music which reached her from
the stage. The curtain was up now, and the courtiers were dancing, up
stage; she could see a few of them pass and repass; then she heard the
little round of applause that greeted the Duke's appearance as he went
forward to begin his scene with Borsa. He had many friends in the
invited audience, and was moreover one of the popular light tenors of
the day. Doubtless, the elderly woman of the world who worshipped him
was there in her glory, in a stage-box, ready to split her gloves when
he should sing 'La donna è mobile.' Margaret knew that the wholesale
upholsterer who admired the contralto was not far off, for she had seen
a man bringing in flowers for her, and no one else would have sent them
to her for a mere dress rehearsal.
Margaret was so well used to the opera that the time passed quickly
after the Duke had begun his scene.
The silent maid approached her with a hare's-foot and a saucer, to put
a finishing touch on her face, to which she submitted with
indifference, listening all the time to the music that came to her
through the open door. There was time yet, but she was not impatient
any more; the opera had begun and she was a part of it already, before
she had set her foot upon the stage, before she had seen, for the first
time, the full house before her, instead of the yawning emptiness. It
would be dark when she went on, for Gilda's first entrance is in the
night scene in the courtyard, but it would not be empty, and perhaps it
would not be silent either. It was quite likely that a little
encouraging applause for the young débutante would be heard.
Margaret smiled to herself as she thought of that. She would make them
applaud her in real earnest before the curtain went down, not by way of
good-natured encouragement, but whether they would or not. She was very
sure of herself, and the cadaverous maid watched her with curiosity and
admiration, wondering very much whether such pride might not go before
a fall, and end in a violent stage fright. But then, the object of the
dress rehearsal was to guard against the consequences of such a
misfortune. If Margaret could not sing a note at first, it would not
matter to-day, but it would certainly matter a good deal the day after
to-morrow.