The New Margarita

On the first landing, Sorelli ran against the Comte de Chagny, who was coming upstairs. The count, who was generally so calm, seemed greatly excited.

“I was just going to you,” he said, taking off his hat. “Oh, Sorelli, what an evening! And Christine Daaé: what a triumph!”

“Impossible!” said Meg Giry. “Six months ago, she used to sing like a crock ! But do let us get by, my dear count,” continues the brat, with a saucy curtsey. “We are going to inquire after a poor man who was found hanging by the neck.”

Just then the acting-manager came fussing past and stopped when he heard this remark.

“What!” he exclaimed roughly. “Have you girls heard already? Well, please forget about it for tonight⁠—and above all don’t let M. Debienne and M. Poligny hear; it would upset them too much on their last day.”

They all went on to the foyer of the ballet, which was already full of people. The Comte de Chagny was right; no gala performance ever equalled this one. All the great composers of the day had conducted their own works in turns. Faure and Krauss had sung; and, on that evening, Christine Daaé had revealed her true self, for the first time, to the astonished and enthusiastic audience. Gounod had conducted the “ Funeral March of a Marionnette ;” Reyer, his beautiful overture to Siguar ; Saint Saëns, the “ Danse Macabre ” and