"I had a few engagements at first," replied the Frenchwoman. "I
played at Sadler's Wells and with Mrs. Jordan at Covent Garden, but
the Aliens' Bill put an end to my chances of livelihood. No manger
cared to give me a part, and so ..."
"And so?"
"Oh! I had a few jewels and I sold them. ... A little money and I live
on that. ... But when I played at Covent Garden I contrived to send
part of my salary over to some of the poorer clubs of Paris. My heart
aches for those that are starving. ... Poor wretches, they are
misguided and misled by self-seeking demagogues. ... It hurts me to
feel that I can do nothing more to help them ... and eases my self-
respect if, by singing at public fairs, I can still send a few francs to
those who are poorer than myself."
She had spoken with ever-increasing passion and vehemence.
Marguerite, with eyes fixed into vacancy, seeing neither the speaker
nor her surroundings, seeing only visions of those same poor
wreckages of humanity, who had been goaded into thirst for blood,
when their shrunken bodies should have been clamouring for healthy
food,--Marguerite thus absorbed, had totally forgotten her earlier
prejudices and now completely failed to note all that was unreal,
stagy, theatrical, in the oratorical declamations of the ex-actress from
the Varietes.
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