“Immediately the waiting-room and passage-way were filled by Inocencio’s friends, who came eagerly to tell him that this first performance of his play was a great success,—­but what was the matter with Clotilde?  She hardly put any movement into her part,—­and she was usually so much alive, so tremendously forceful!  Our young friend acknowledged that, as a matter of fact, she had felt badly scared, and that this had hampered her seriously.  The author, greatly alarmed for the fate of his work, endeavored to persuade her that there was nothing to be afraid of, that all she had to do was to be herself, and that she was not to think of him at all while she spoke her lines.

“‘I can’t help it,’ insisted Clotilde, ’all the time that I am speaking I keep thinking that you are the author, and imagining that the play is not going to succeed, and it makes me so frightened.’

“Inocencio was in despair; he tried entreaties, advice, arguments, he embraced her without caring who saw him; he tried to infuse courage into her by appealing to her vanity as an artist; in short, he did everything imaginable to save his play.

“The second act began.  Clotilde had a few pathetic scenes.  In the beginning there was a certain slight disturbance in the audience, and this sufficed to disconcert her completely, and to make her acting irremediably bad, worse than she had ever acted in her whole life.  A good deal of coughing was heard, and some loud murmurs of impatience.  At the end of that second act a few indiscreet friends tried to applaud, but the audience drowned them out with an immense and terrifying series of hisses.  The author, who was standing by my side, pale as death, relieved his feelings with a flood of coarse words, and made his way to Pepe’s room, which faces that of Clotilde, and where his friends consoled him, casting the whole blame for the failure upon her, and inflaming more and more the anger surging in his heart.  Meanwhile, our friend was utterly crushed and overcome, and continually calling for her Inocencio.  In order to spare her further trouble, I told her that the author had accepted the situation resignedly, and had left the theater to get a breath of air.  The unhappy girl bitterly blamed herself, taking the entire failure on her own shoulders.

“The curtain rose for the third act; and we all gathered anxiously at the wings.  Clotilde, by a powerful effort of will, showed herself at first more self-possessed than in the previous acts, but the audience was in a mood to have some sport, and nothing could have made them take the play seriously.  When the public once scents a trail, it is like a wild beast that smells blood; there is no way of heading it off, and you have got to let it have its flesh at any cost.  And there is no doubt that on this occasion it gorged itself full.  Coughs, laughter, sneezes, stampings, hisses,—­there was a little of everything.  Tears sprang to our poor friend’s eyes, and she seemed upon the point