'But why do you put on so much?' Margaret asked in wonder.
'My dear, I'm an actress,' said Madame Bonanni. 'I'm not ashamed of my
profession! If I didn't paint, people would say I was trying to pass
myself off for a lady! Besides, now that I have cried, nothing but
powder will hide it. Look at my nose, my dear--just look at my nose!
Little Miss Donne'--she turned upon Margaret with sudden, tragic
energy--'don't ever let that wretched boy know that I cried about him!
Eh? Never! Promise you won't!' 'No, indeed! You may trust me. Why should I tell?' 'But it doesn't matter. Tell him if you like. I don't care. My life is
over now, and there is no reason why I should care about anything, is
there?' 'What do you mean by saying that your life is over?' Margaret asked.
Madame Bonanni's head fell upon the edge of the table and she looked at
herself in the glass for some moments before she answered.
'I have left the stage,' she said, very quietly.
'Left the stage? For good?' Margaret was amazed.
'Yes. I was not going to have any farewells or last appearances. Those
things are only done to make money. Schreiermeyer was very nice about
it. He agreed to cancel the rest of my engagements in a friendly way.' 'But why? Why have you done it?' asked Margaret, still bewildered by
the news.
Madame Bonanni had done one cheek and half the other. She leaned back
in the comfortable chair before the glass and looked at herself again,
not at all at the effect of her work, but at her eyes, as if she were
searching for something.
'There is not room for you and me,' she said, presently.
'I don't understand,' Margaret answered. 'Not room? Where?' 'On the stage. I have been the great lyric soprano a long time. Next
month you will be the great lyric soprano--there is not room----' 'Nonsense!' Margaret broke in. 'I shall never be what you are----' 'Not what I was, perhaps, because this is another age. Taste and
teaching and the art itself--all have changed. But you are young,
fresh, untouched, unheard--all, you have it all, as I had once. You are
not the artist I am, but you will be one day, and meanwhile you have
all I have no more. If I had stayed on the stage, we should have been
rivals next season. They would have said: "Cordova has a better voice,
but Bonanni is still the greater artist." Do you see?' 'Yes. And why should you not be pleased at that?' asked Margaret. 'Or
why should not I be quite satisfied, and more than satisfied?' 'I wasn't thinking of us,' said Madame Bonanni, looking up to
Margaret's face with an expression that was almost beautiful, in spite
of the daubs of paint and the disarranged hair. 'I was thinking of
him.' Margaret began to guess, and her lip quivered a moment, for she was
touched.