Her thoughts flew to her kindest friend, Pasquin Leroy;--she
remembered the starry diamond in the ring he had wished to give her,
and how he had said, 'Pequita, the first time you dance before the
King, this shall be yours!'
Where was he now, she wondered? She would have given anything to know
his place of abode, just to send him word that the King was to be at
the Opera that night, and ask him too, to come and see her in her
triumph! But she had no time to study ways and means for sending a
message to him, either through Sholto, her father, who always waited
patiently for her behind the scenes,--or through Paul Zouche, who,
though as _librettist_ of the opera, and as a poet of new and
rising fame, was treated by everyone with the greatest deference, still
made a special point of appearing in the shabbiest clothes, and
lounging near the side-wings like a sort of disgraced tramp all the
time the performance was in progress. Neither of them knew Leroy's
address;--they only met him or saw him, when he himself chose to come
among them. Besides,--the sound of the National Hymn played by the
orchestra, warned her that the King had arrived; and that she must hold
herself in readiness for her part and think of nothing else.
The blaze of light in the Opera-house seemed more dazzling than usual
to the child, when her cue was called,--and as she sprang from the
wings and bounded towards the footlights, amid the loud roar of
applause which she was now accustomed to receive nightly, she raised
her eyes towards the Royal box, half-frightened, half-expectant.
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