I
wanted to cross the footlights and help the slim-waisted Armand in the
frilled shirt to convince her that there was still loyalty and devotion in
the world. Her sudden illness, when the gaiety was at its height, her
pallor, the handkerchief she crushed against her lips, the cough she
smothered under the laughter while Gaston kept playing the piano
lightly--it all wrung my heart. But not so much as her cynicism in the
long dialogue with her lover which followed. How far was I from
questioning her unbelief! While the charmingly sincere young man pleaded
with her--accompanied by the orchestra in the old `Traviata' duet,
'misterioso, misterios' altero!'--she maintained her bitter scepticism, and
the curtain fell on her dancing recklessly with the others, after Armand
had been sent away with his flower.
Between the acts we had no time to forget. The orchestra kept sawing away
at the `Traviata' music, so joyous and sad, so thin and far-away, so
clap-trap and yet so heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena in
tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby to smoke.
As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I had not brought some
Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about the junior dances, or
whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth.
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