“When the part of Chevrial was given to him, Mansfield was fascinated with his opportunity, but he kept his counsel.  He applied every resource of his ability to the composition of his performance of the decrepit old rake.  He sought specialists on the infirmities of roues; he studied specimens in clubs, on the avenue, and in hospitals; and in the privacy of his own room he practiced make-ups for the part every spare moment.  The rehearsals themselves were sufficiently uneventful.  He gave evidence of a careful, workmanlike performance, but promise of nothing more.

“While he was working out the part Mansfield scarcely ate or slept.  He had a habit of dining with a group of young Bohemians at a table d’hote in Sixth Avenue.  The means of none of them made regularity at these forty-cent banquets possible, so his absence was meaningless.  One evening, however, he dropped into his accustomed chair, but tasted nothing.

“‘What’s the matter, Mansfield?’ asked one of the others.

“To-morrow night I shall be famous,’ he said.  ‘Come and see the play,’

“His friends were accustomed to lofty talk from him.  His prophecy was answered with a light laugh and it had passed out of their memories as they drifted into the night.  This was one of those intuitions to which he often confessed, and it told him that the years of apprenticeship were behind him and the artist in him was on the eve of acknowledgment.

“On the night of January 11, 1883, the theatre was radiant with an expectant audience—­half convinced in advance by the record of the Union Square’s past, but by the same token exacting to a merciless degree—­to see their old friends in the first performance in America of ’A Parisian Romance.’

“Mansfield made his entrance as the Baron Chevrial within a few moments after the rise of the curtain.  It was effected in an unconcerned silence on the part of the audience.

“There were, on the other hand, the deserved receptions of old favorites by old friends, as Miss Jewett, Miss Vernon, Miss Carey, Mr. DeBelleville, Mr. Parselle and Mr. Whiting came upon the scene.

“When Chevrial, finding himself alone with Tirandel and Laubaniere, exposed his amusingly cynical views of life and society, some attention was paid to a remarkable portrait of a polished, but coarse, gay, though aging, voluptuary.  The scene was short and he was soon off, though not without a little impudent touch, in passing the maid in the doorway, that did not slip unnoticed.  The dramatic disclosures which followed brought the act to a close with applause that augured well.  Henri, Marcelle, and Mme. De Targy were called forward enthusiastically.