I Is It A Ghost?

           ItwastheeveningonwhichMM.DebienneandPoligny,themanagersoftheOpera,weregivingalastgalaperformancetomarktheirretirement.Suddenlythedressing-roomofLaSorelli,oneoftheprincipaldancers,wasinvadedbyhalf-a-dozenyoungladiesoftheballet,whohadcomeupfromthestageafter"dancing"Polyeucte.Theyrushedinamidgreatconfusion,somegivingventtoforcedandunnaturallaughter,otherstocriesofterror.Sorelli,whowishedtobealoneforamomentto"runthrough"thespeechwhichshewastomaketotheresigningmanagers,lookedaroundangrilyatthemadandtumultuouscrowd.ItwaslittleJammes—thegirlwiththetip-tiltednose,theforget-me-noteyes,therose-redcheeksandthelily-whiteneckandshoulders—whogavetheexplanationinatremblingvoice:

           "It’stheghost!"Andshelockedthedoor.

           Sorelli’sdressing-roomwasfittedupwithofficial,commonplaceelegance.Apier-glass,asofa,adressing-tableandacupboardortwoprovidedthenecessaryfurniture.Onthewallshungafewengravings,relicsofthemother,whohadknownthegloriesoftheoldOperaintheRuelePeletier;portraitsofVestris,Gardel,Dupont,Bigottini.Buttheroomseemedapalacetothebratsofthecorpsdeballet,whowerelodgedincommondressing-roomswheretheyspenttheirtimesinging,quarreling,smackingthedressersandhair-dressersandbuyingoneanotherglassesofcassis,beer,orevenrhum,untilthecall-boy’sbellrang.

           Sorelliwasverysuperstitious.