“Fool!” hissed her sister, “you think you will marry the American!” “Mademoiselle Descartes! mais Mademoiselle Descartes!” cried Monsieur’s voice without. “Let me go!” panted Yvonne, struggling wildly. “Go!” screamed the woman, “go, and sing! You cannot marry him! He is dead!” and she struck the girl with her clenched fist. The door, torn open, crashed behind her and immediately swung back again to admit Madame. “My child! my child! What is it? What ails you? Quick, or it will be too late! Ah! try, try, my child!” She was in tears of despair. Taking her beseeching hand, Yvonne moved toward the stage. “Oui, chère Madame!” she said. The chorus swelled around her. Oh! reine en ce jour! rose, fell, ebbed away, and left her standing alone. She heard a voice—“Tell me, Venus—” but she hardly knew it for her own. It was all dark before her eyes—while the mad chorus of Kings went on, “For us, what joy!”—thundering away along the wings. “Fear Calchas!” “Seize him!” “Let Calchas fear!” And then she began to sing—to sing as she had never sung before. Sweet, thrilling, her voice poured forth into the crowded auditorium. The people sat spellbound. There was a moment of silence; no one offered to applaud. And then she began again. Oui c’est un réve, Un réve doux d’amour— She faltered— La nuit lui préte son mystère, Il doit finir avec le jour— the voice broke. Men were standing up in the audience. One cried out: “Il—doit—finir—” The music clashed in one great discord. Why did the stage reel under her? What was the shouting? Her heavy, dark hair fell down about her little white face as she sank on her knees, and covered her as she lay her slender length along the stage. The orchestra and the audience sprang to their feet. The great blank curtain rattled to the ground. A whirlwind swept over the house. Monsieur Bordier stepped before the curtain. “My friends!” he began, but his voice failed, and he only added, “C’est fini!” With hardly a word the audience moved to the exits. But Braith, turning to the right, made his way through a long, low passage and strode toward a little stage door. It was flung open and a man hurried past him. “Monsieur!” called Braith. “Monsieur!” But Monsieur Bordier was crying like a child, and kept on his way, without answering. The narrow corridor was now filled with hurrying, excited figures in gauze and tinsel, sham armor, and painted faces. They pressed Braith back, but he struggled and fought his way to the door. A Sergeant de Ville shouldered through the crowd. He was dragging a woman along by the arm. Another policeman came behind, urging her forward. Somehow she slipped from them and sank, cowering against the wall. Braith’s eyes met hers. She cowered still lower. A slender, sallow man had been quietly slipping through the throng. A red-faced fellow touched him on the shoulder. “Pardon! I think this is Mr Emanuel Pick.” “No!” stammered the man, and started to run.