The Ghost | Page 9

on the stage, and he was not on the stage. I stole a glance at
Sir Cyril's face. It was Napoleonic in its impassivity.
And I said to myself:
"He is used to this kind of thing. Naturally slips must happen
sometimes."
Still, I could not control my excitement.
Emmeline's hand was convulsively clutching at the velvet-covered
balustrade of the box.
"It'll be all right," I repeated to myself.
But when the moment came for the king to bless the bridal pair, and
there was no Lohengrin to bless, even the impassive Sir Cyril seemed
likely to be disturbed, and you could hear murmurs of apprehension
from all parts of the house. The conductor, however, went doggedly on,
evidently hoping for the best.
At last the end of the procession was leaving the stage, and Elsa was
sitting on the bed alone. Still no Lohengrin. The violins arrived at the
muted chord of B flat, which is Lohengrin's cue. They hung on it for a
second, and then the conductor dropped his baton. A bell rang. The
curtain descended. The lights were turned up, and there was a swift
loosing of tongues in the house. People were pointing to Sir Cyril in
our box. As for him, he seemed to be the only unmoved person in the
audience.
"That's never occurred before in my time," he said. "Alresca was not
mistaken. Something has happened. I must go."

But he did not go. And I perceived that, though the calm of his
demeanor was unimpaired, this unprecedented calamity had completely
robbed him of his power of initiative. He could not move. He was
nonplussed.
The door of the box opened, and an official with a blazing diamond in
his shirt-front entered hurriedly.
"What is it, Nolan?"
"There's been an accident to Monsieur Alresca, Sir Cyril, and they want
a doctor."
It was the chance of a lifetime! I ought to have sprung up and proudly
announced, "I'm a doctor." But did I? No! I was so timid, I was so
unaccustomed to being a doctor, that I dared not for the life of me utter
a word. It was as if I was almost ashamed of being a doctor. I wonder if
my state of mind will be understood.
"Carl's a doctor," said Sullivan.
How I blushed!
"Are you?" said Sir Cyril, suddenly emerging from his condition of
suspended activity. "I never guessed it. Come along with us, will you?"
"With pleasure," I answered as briskly as I could.
CHAPTER III
THE CRY OF ALRESCA
As I left the box in the wake of Sir Cyril and Mr. Nolan, Sullivan
jumped up to follow us, and the last words I heard were from
Emmeline.
"Sullivan, stay here. You shall not go near that woman," she exclaimed
in feverish and appealing tones: excitement had once more overtaken

her. And Sullivan stayed.
"Berger here?" Sir Cyril asked hurriedly of Nolan.
"Yes, sir."
"Send some one for him. I'll get him to take Alresca's part. He'll have to
sing it in French, but that won't matter. We'll make a new start at the
duet."
"But Rosa?" said Nolan.
"Rosa! She's not hurt, is she?"
"No, sir. But she's upset."
"What the devil is she upset about?"
"The accident. She's practically useless. We shall never persuade her to
sing again to-night."
"Oh, damn!" Sir Cyril exclaimed. And then quite quietly: "Well, run
and tell 'em, then. Shove yourself in front of the curtain, my lad, and
make a speech. Say it's nothing serious, but just sufficient to stop the
performance. Apologize, grovel, flatter 'em, appeal to their
generosity--you know."
"Yes, Sir Cyril."
And Nolan disappeared on his mission of appeasing the audience.
We had traversed the flagged corridor. Sir Cyril opened a narrow door
at the end.
"Follow me," he called out. "This passage is quite dark, but quite
straight."
It was not a passage; it was a tunnel. I followed the sound of his
footsteps, my hands outstretched to feel a wall on either side. It seemed

a long way, but suddenly we stepped into twilight. There was a flight of
steps which we descended, and at the foot of the steps a mutilated
commissionaire, ornamented with medals, on guard.
"Where is Monsieur Alresca?" Sir Cyril demanded.
"Behind the back-cloth, where he fell, sir," answered the
commissionaire, saluting.
I hurried after Sir Cyril, and found myself amid a most extraordinary
scene of noise and confusion on the immense stage. The entire
personnel of the house seemed to be present: a crowd apparently
consisting of thousands of people, and which really did comprise some
hundreds. Never before had I had such a clear conception of the
elaborate human machinery necessary to the production of even a
comparatively simple lyric work like "Lohengrin." Richly clad pages
and maids of