Of the wrath and bewilderment of her manager there is no need to speak; a long experience of famous actresses and singers had not exhausted that expert’s capacity for despair.  His pessimism gained some color that evening, when Truda had to face a house that was plainly willing to be unsympathetic; applause came doubtfully and in patches, till she gained a hold of them and made herself their master by main force of personality.  Monsieur Vaucher, the manager, was still a connoisseur of art.  Years of feeling the public pulse through the box-office had not stripped him of a certain shrewd perception of what was fine and what was mean in drama; and he chuckled and wagged his head in the wings as minute by minute the spell of Truda’s genius strengthened, till there came that tenseness of silence in the great theatre which few actors live to know, and Truda, vibrant, taut-nerved, and superb, plucked at men’s hearts as if they had been harp-strings.  It was not till the curtain was down that the spell broke, and then crash upon crash roared the tumultuous applause of the audience.

It was Vaucher who rushed forward, as Truda came from the stage, to kiss her hand extravagantly.

“Ah!  Madame!” he cried, looking up to her with his shrewd face working; “it is not for me to guide you.  Do as you will by day, but be a genius at night.  At this rate you could unman an army.”

Truda smiled and withdrew her hand.

“That was Prince Sarasin in the great box,” she said.  “Presently he will send his card in.”

Vaucher nodded.  “That was he,” he said.  “He is Governor of this town.  Madame will receive him?  Or not?”

“Oh yes; let him in to me,” she answered.  “He is an old friend of mine.”

Vaucher bowed.  “What a happiness for him, then!” he said gravely, and opened the door of her dressing-room for her.

Prince Sarasin lost no time in making Truda’s word good.  By the time she was ready to receive him, he was waiting for admission.  He strode in, burly in his uniform, and bowed to her effusively, full of admiration.  He was a great dark Russian, heavy and massive, with a big petulant face not without intelligence, and Truda had known him of old in Paris.  She looked at him now with some anxiety, trying to gauge his susceptibility.  He had the spacious manners of a man of action, smiled readily and with geniality; but Truda realized that she had never before made him a request, and the real character of the man was still to find.

“Superb!  Magnificent!” he was saying.  “You have ripened, my friend; your power has grown to maturity.  It is people like you who make epochs.”

“Sit down!” she bade him.  “I am a little tired, as you may think.  Your town is hard on one’s nerves, Prince.”

“Hard!” He laughed as he drew a chair towards her and seated himself.  “It is death to the intelligence.  It is suffocation to one’s finer nature.  It has a dullness that turns men into vegetables.  I have been here now for three years, and till to-night I have not felt a thrill.”