But the assurance that “I did—­oh, I did, indeed! smell a most outrageous odour,” came so swiftly, so convincingly from my lips, that his suspicions were lulled to rest.

The last act came, and—­and—­well, as I said, it was the last act.  White and rigid and lily-strewn, they bore me on the stage,—­Louis James at the shoulders and George Clarke at the feet.  Their heads were bent over me.  James was nearest to the storm centre.  Suddenly he gasped, then as we reached the centre of the stage Clarke gave vent to “phew!” They gently laid me on the sofa, but through the sobs of the audience and of the characters I heard from James the unfinished, half-doubting sentence, “Well, I believe in my soul it’s—­” But the mother (Miss Morant) approached me then, took my hand, touched my brow, called for help, for a physician; then with the wild cry, “She is dead! she is dead!” flung herself down beside the sofa with her head upon my goose-grease breast.  Scarcely had she touched me, however, when with a gasping snort of disgust she sprang back, exclaiming violently, “It’s you, you wretch! it’s you!” and then under cover of other people’s speeches, I being dead and helpless, Clarke stood at my head and James at my feet and reviled me, calling me divers unseemly names and mocking at me, while references were made every now and then to chloride of lime and such like disinfectants.

They would probably have made life a burden for me ever after, had I not after the performance lifted tearful eyes to them and said, “I am so sorry for your discomfort, but you can go out and get fresh air; but, boys, just think of me, I can’t get away from myself and my goose-grease smell a single moment, and it’s perfectly awful!”

“You bet it is!” they all answered, as with one voice, and they were merciful to me, which did not prevent them from sending the prompter (who did not know of the discovery) with a lantern to search back of the scenes for the cause of the offensive odour.  Perhaps I may add that goose grease does not figure in my list of “household remedies.”

But the next week I was able, in a measure at least, to heal their wounded feelings.  Actresses used to receive a good many little gifts from admirers in the audience.  They generally took the form of flowers or candy, but sometimes there came instead a book, a piece of music, or an ornament for the dressing-table; but Alixe’s altar could boast an entirely new votive offering.  I received a letter and a box.  The letter was an outburst of admiration for Alixe, the “lily maid the tender, the poetical,” etc.  The writer then went on to tell me how she had yearned to express to me her feelings; how she had consulted her husband on the matter, and how he had said certainly to write if she wished, and send some little offering, which seemed appropriate, and “therefore she sent this”; and with visions of a copy of Keats or Shelley or a lace-trimmed pin-cushion, I opened the box and found the biggest mince pie I ever saw.