“Her lamplight shines upon his face, Tra-la-la! His mouth is hot against her throat, Tra-la-la! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I do not care! Tr-r-r-r-a-la-la! Tra!--_La!_--LA!” Her full voice, loud, hard, and colourless, cut the last syllable out of its shrill heights like an ominous, sharp-edged knife. Shiver followed shiver down Ventrillon’s spine. He sat spellbound. When she sang she was truly great. Outside the windows rose a burst of applause from a crowd which had gathered in the street. “Listen!” cried the Belletaille, shaking her widespread, long white fingers above her head with joy. “My children!” She darted to a window. As she stood in the window, holding the draperies apart with her hands, the radiance upon her face flickered and died. Her chin thrust steadily forward from between her thin shoulders, and the cords of her neck stood out like wires under her skin. “Ah-h-h-h!” she gasped, hoarse with rage, “the cow! the camel! the pig! the poiasse! The’--the--agh-h-h-h-h-h!” She could not think of words terrible or scorching enough to soothe the hot desire of her throat for exacerbation. Ventrillon felt like stopping his ears against what she would say next. “The--the _species of indelicate_!” she cried at last, and subsided, thwarted by the French language. Ventrillon went to her side and looked out. One side of the street was packed with a mass of excited people, gesticulating, laughing, applauding. The other was deserted save for a little Dresden-china figure in a ridiculous frilly frock, with a tiny absurdity of a hat cocked down above her impertinent, tip-tilted nose, and the two huge black leopards she was promenading through the streets of Paris on a leash. The muscles of the black beasts slid like snakes beneath their sleek hides, their soft muzzles slobbered, their red tongues lolled, and their jade-green eyes shifted uneasily as they dragged the foolish little creature behind them along the pavement on her stilted heels. She was laughing with delight, and flicking them frivolously with a jewelled riding whip. It was Fanny Max. Four _gendarmes_ stood in the street, consulting in whispers. The one with the longest moustache took his courage in his hands and advanced with his chest out. The others gallantly followed. The crowd cheered again. Fanny Max touched her beasts toward the _gendarmes_. One leopard snarled. The _gendarmes_ ignominiously fell back. Fanny Max laughed a silvery little “ha! ha!” and continued her triumphant progress. The crowd cheered wildly and howled with delight. The Belletaille burst into wild tears. “T-to think,” she sobbed, “that she would have the impudence to come _here_! In _my_ street! She does it purposely! I _know_ she does it purposely. Oh, but she is vulgar! And her notoriety! How it is disgusting! How I ab-b-bominate n-n-notoriety!” Suddenly the Belletaille straightened. She turned to clutch both Ventrillon’s arms with hands like steel fetters.