The Second Class Passenger | Page 8

answered curtly.
The others came within the circle of the lamp--a girl and two men.
"I do hope he's found my idol," the girl was saying.
Dawson stepped into the light, and they turned and saw him.
"Why, here he is," exclaimed Miss Paterson shrilly.
He raised his hat to the woman who stood at the entrance to the
alley--raised it as he would have raised it to a waitress in a bun- shop,
and went over to the people from the second-class saloon.
"I found it," he said, lifting the image forward, and brushing with his
hand at the foulness of blood and hair upon it. "But I was almost
thinking I should miss the boat."

II
THE SENSE OF CLIMAX
It was in the fall of the year that Truda Schottelius on tour came to that
shabby city of Southern Russia. Nowadays, the world remembers little
of her besides her end, which stirred it as Truda Schottelius could
always stir her audience; but in those days hers was a fame that had
currency from Paris to Belgrade, and the art of drama was held her
debtor.
It was soon after dawn that she looked from her window in the train,
weary with twelve hours of traveling, and saw the city set against the
pale sky, unreal and remote like a scene in a theatre, while about it the
flat land stretched vacant and featureless. The light was behind it, and it
stood out in silhouette like a forced effect, and Truda, remarking it,
frowned, for of late she found herself impatient of forced effects. She
was a pale, slender, brown-haired woman, with a small clear, pliant
face, and some manner of languor in all her attitudes that lent them a
slow grace of their own and did not at all impair the startling energy
she could command for her work. While she looked out at the city there
came a tap at the door of her compartment, and her maid entered with
tea. Behind her, a little drawn in that early hour, came Truda's manager,
Monsieur Vaucher.
"Madame finds herself well?" he asked solicitously, but shivering
somewhat. "Madame is in the mood for further triumphs?"
Truda gave him a smile. Monsieur Vaucher was a careful engineer of
her successes, a withered little middle-aged Parisian, who had grown
up in the mechanical service of great singers and actors. There was not
a tone in his voice, not a gesture in his repertory, that was not an
affectation; and, with it all, she knew him for a man of sterling loyalty
and a certain simplicity of heart.
"We are on the point of arriving," went on Monsieur Vaucher. "I come

to tell Madame how the ground lies in this city. It is, you see, a place
vexed with various politics, an arena of trivialities. In other words,
Madame, the best place in the world for one who is--shall we
say?--detached."
Truda laughed, sipping her warm tea.
"Politics have never tempted me, my friend," she replied.
Monsieur Vaucher bowed complaisantly.
"Your discretion is frequently perfect," he said. "And if I suggest that
here is an occasion for a particular discretion, it is only because I have
Madame's interests at heart. Now, the chief matters of dispute here
are----"
Truda interrupted him. "Please!" she said. "It does not matter at all.
And think! Politics before breakfast. I am surprised at you, Monsieur
Vaucher."
The little man shrugged. "It is as Madame pleases," he said. "However,
here we are at the station; I will go to make all ready."
Truda had a wide experience of strange towns, and preserved yet some
interest in making their acquaintance. At that early hour the streets
were sparsely peopled; the city was still at its toilet. A swift carriage,
manned by a bulky coachman of that spacious degree of fatness which
is fashionable in Russia, bore her to her hotel along wide monotonous
ways, flanked with dull buildings. It was all very prosaic, very void of
character; it did not at all engage her thoughts, and it was in weariness
that she gained her rooms and disposed herself for a day of rest before
the evening's task.
Another woman might have gathered depression and the weakness of
melancholy from this dullness of arrival, following on the dullness of
travel; but a great actress is made on other lines. A large audience was
gathered in the theatre that night to make acquaintance with her, for her
coming was an event of high importance. Only one box was

empty--that of the Governor of the city, a Russian Prince whom Truda
had met before; it was understood that he was away, and could not
return till the following day.
But for the rest the house was full; its expectancy made itself felt like