Clouds of muslin float away airily to the side.
Gradually the little groups are broken up,
and a stream of habitués begins to flow
steadily through the swinging door. There
are signs of life to be seen in the prompter's
little music-book opening, as it were, of
itself. The chef re-appears in his place, and
all is ready for the opening of act the
second.

There are, however, certain risks and ills
which inexperienced Coulisse visitors are in
some measure heir to. It is not universally
known that there are huge balance-weights
swinging over-head, by way of counter-
poise, the cords of which have been known
to give way, and the weights to come crashing
down with terrific effect. Now and then
cords and blocks drop from above, with a
stray man occasionally. Sometimes a trap
will open suddenly at the feet of a curious
observer, and, if he be tempted to look down
and see what may be coming next, he may
perhaps find himself à cheval on some
construction, and borne aloft to the clouds—
—thus, for once in his life, realising his
apotheosis. The toe of a pirouetting danseuse
has, before now, done grievous mischief to a
bystander's physiognomy. To such pitfalls
are the unthinking exposed. Therefore has
it been held that the foremost portion of the
stage—namely that nearest to the curtain—
is the most secure, and furthest removed
from peril.

Far behind, beyond even the remotest flat,
may be noted two other doors, each leading
to more regions of mystery. Thus is there
mystery within mystery—wheels within
wheels. One of these opens into the dancers'
hall and tiring-rooms, the other into that
set apart for the singers. Once on a time,
this singers' room was a glittering salon in
the famous Hôtel de Choiseul, and still shows
the rich white and gold adornments of that
decorative age. At present it is a bald and
desolate-looking apartment, its only furniture
being a single pianoforte and a few benches.
For, hither resort, each in their turn, the
leading artistes to make their early
répétitions of the new opera, the maestro himself
presiding. But, in the other salle—that on
the right—the proceedings are of a more
stirring and enlivening quality. It is always
brilliantly illuminated and garnished plentifully
with handsome looking-glasses reaching to
the floor. Here congregate the danseuses
and their intimates in noisy groups.
Ambassadors, ministers, peers, deputies, and marshals
of France are to be seen here, night after night;
Veteran Bugeaud, on one of his short Algerian
furloughs, came often too. Very motley
and diverse are the occupations of all present.
Some are busy putting a last finish to their
toilette, while many more are clustered round
an ancient and generous friend—affectionately
known as papa—who is distributing
bonbons and other sweet confection. Others,
again, whose turn to go on will come round
presently, are hard at work practising steps,
putting themselves, as their phrase runs, en
train. For this purpose specially, are fixed
before the looking-glasses, at a convenient
height from the ground, certain smooth
blocks of wood. To such elevation will the
conscientious danseuse raise her foot, and
keep it there poised for many minutes. This
process secures proper flexibility for what
may be termed the pair of compasses
manoeuvre. After a fair allowance of this
exercise, mademoiselle takes in her own
hands a coquettish little watering-pot,
and, with abundance of graces, proceeds
to sprinkle a small circle in front of
the glass. Wrapt admirers look on in
ecstasy, mademoiselle's own particular
worshipper holding the sacred watering-pot.
Then follows a series of bold springs—entre-chats,
as they are called—and other light
gymnastics, until Monsieur l'Avertisseur—
there is no such degraded being as a
call-boy—until Monsieur l'Avertisseur draws
near and informs mademoiselle that her hour
has come; thereupon, mademoiselle delicately
withdraws certain preservatives against dust
and other foreign matter—inimical to the
tint of delicate silken hose—and in an instant
has substituted new bright satin shoes for
the more elderly ones in which she has been
practising. The worshipper is privileged to
stand by, and looks on reverently at this
toilette.

Here, too, come the first-class artistes, in
the broad daylight, to rehearse and receive
instruction in their distinct specialities; for,
there is a reign of terrible drudgery at those
glittering Coulisses, side by side with that
other reign of spangles and enchantment.
All day long, there is a treadmill turning,
which is worked wearily by the lofty and
lowly of the profession. All must bend
to this stern training regimen, and Pale
Maître-de-danse—as surely as Pallida Mors—
stamps his impartial foot alike before the
première of the ballerinas as before the
humblest supernumerary coryphée. For these
there is no private salle: it is a stern law
that all their répétitions shall take place on
the stage itself, to the bald accompaniment of
a single violin. Very dreary, and at the
same time very curious, are the scenes at
this ballet rehearsal, in dull theatrical day-
light, if only from the strange contrast to be
seen there. Some ladies arrive magnificently,
in their carriages drawn by English horses,
and superbly habited in costly finery, while
near them stands a young creature in mean,
shabby garments, who has had to trudge it
from some remote quartier. The stranger
who is prying curiously about, will take note
of their bonnets lying together upon the
table—one, an exquisite little construction,
elegance itself, from the atelier of the imperial
modiste; the other, a faded, flattened thing
beaten out of all shape, and washed in many
a deluge of rain. Yet does mademoiselle