Paris lay sparkling under a cold, clear sky. The brilliant streets lay coiled along the Seine and stretched glittering from bank to bank, from boulevard to boulevard; cafés, brasseries, concert halls and theaters in the yellow blaze of gas and the white and violet of electricity.

It was not late, but people who entered the lobby of the Theater Fauvette turned away before the placard “Standing room only.”

Somewhere in the city a bell sounded the hour, and with the last stroke the drop curtain fell on the first act of “La Belle Hélène.”

It fell amidst a whirlwind of applause, in which the orchestra led.

The old leader of the violins shook his head, however. He had been there twenty years, and he had never before heard of such singing in comic opera.

“No, no,” he said, “she can’t stay here. Dame! she sings!”

Madame Bordier was pale and happy; her good husband was weak with joy. The members of the troupe had not yet had time to be jealous and they, too, applauded.

As for the house, it was not only conquered, it was wild with enthusiasm. The lobbies were thronged.

Braith ran up against Rowden and Elliott.

“By Jove!” they cried, with one voice, “who’d have thought the little girl had all that in her? I say, Braith, does Rex know about her? When is he coming?”

“Rex doesn’t know and doesn’t care. Rex is cured,” said Braith. “And he’s coming next week. Where’s Clifford?” he added, to make a diversion.

“Clifford promised to meet us here. He’ll be along soon.”

The pair went out for refreshments and Braith returned to his seat.

The wait between the acts proved longer than was agreeable, and people grumbled. The machinery would not work, and two heavy scenes had to be shifted by hand. Good Monsieur Bordier flew about the stage in a delirium of excitement. No one would have recognized him for the eminently reasonable being he appeared in private life. He called the stage hands “Prussian pigs!” and “Spanish cattle!” and expressed his intention to dismiss the whole force tomorrow.

Yvonne, already dressed, stood at the door of her room, looking along the alley of dusty scenery to where a warm glow revealed the close proximity of the footlights. There was considerable unprofessional confusion, and not a little skylarking going on among the company, who took advantage of the temporary interruption.

Yvonne stood in the door of her dressing room and dreamed, seeing nothing.

Her pretty figure was draped in a Grecian tunic of creamy white, bordered with gold; her soft, dark hair was gathered in a simple knot.

Presently she turned and entered her dressing room, closing the door. Then she sat down before the mirror, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes fixed on her reflected eyes, a faint smile curving her lips.

“Oh! you happy girl!” she thought. “You happy, happy girl! And just a little frightened, for tomorrow he will come. And when he says — for he will say it — ‘Yvonne must we wait?’ I shall tell him, No! take me now if you will!”

Without a knock the door burst open. A rush of music from the orchestra came in. Yvonne thought “So they have begun at last!” The same moment she rose with a faint, heartsick cry. Her sister closed the door and fastened it, shutting out all sound but that of her terrible voice. Yvonne blanched as she looked on that malignant face. With a sudden faintness she leaned back, pressing one hand to her heart.

“You received my letter?” said the woman.

Yvonne did not answer. Her sister stamped and came nearer. “Speak!” she cried.

Yvonne shrank and trembled, but kept her resolute eyes on the cruel eyes approaching hers.

“Shall I tear an answer from you?” said the woman, always coming nearer. “Do you think I will wait your pleasure, now?”

No answer.

“He is here — Mr Blumenthal; he is waiting for you. You dare not refuse him again! You will come with us now, after the opera. Do you hear? You will come. There is no more time. It must be now. I told you there would be time, but there is none — none!”

Yvonne’s maid knocked at the door and called:

“Mademoiselle, c’est l’heuer!”

“Answer!” hissed the woman.

Yvonne, speechless, holding both hands to her heart, kept her eyes on her sister’s face. That face grew ashen; the eyes had the blank glare of a tiger’s; she sprang up to Yvonne and grasped her by the wrists.

“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! c’est l’heure!” called the maid, shaking the door.

“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 ............