eate, so seductive, elegant, and distinguished did she consider
this exceptional musician! She concluded, laughing: "And how can anyone
resist that voice!"

Olivier felt angry and bitter. He did not understand how anyone could
really care for a mere actor, for that perpetual representation of
human types which never resembled himself in the least; that illusory
personification of imaginary men, that nocturnal and painted manikin who
plays all his characters at so much a night.

"You are jealous of them!" said the Duchess. "You men of the world
and artists all have a grudge against actors because they are more
successful than you." Turning to Annette, she added: "Come, little one,
you who are entering life and look at it with healthy eyes, what do you
think of this tenor?"

"I think he is very good indeed," Annette replied, with an air of
conviction.

The three strokes sounded for the second act, and the curtain rose on
the Kermesse.

Helsson's passage was superb. She seemed to have more voice than
formerly, and to have acquired more certainty of method. She had,
indeed, become the great, excellent, exquisite singer, whose worldly
fame equaled that of Bismarck or De Lesseps.

When Faust rushed toward her, when he sang in his bewitching voice
phrases so full of charm and when the pretty blonde Marguerite replied
so touchingly the whole house was moved with a thrill of pleasure.

When the curtain fell, the applause was tremendous, and Annette
applauded so long that Bertin wished to seize her hands to make her
stop. His heart was stung by a new torment. He did not speak between the
acts, for he was pursuing into the wings, his fixed thought now become
absolute hatred, following to his box, where he saw, putting more white
powder on his cheeks, the odious singer who was thus over-exciting this
child!

Then the curtain rose on the garden scene. Immediately a sort of fever
of love seemed to spread through the house, for never had that music,
which seems like the breath of kisses, been rendered by two such
interpreters. It was no longer two illustrious actors, Montrose and
Helsson; they became two beings from the ideal world, hardly two beings,
indeed, but two voices: the eternal voice of the man that loves, the
eternal voice of the woman that yields; and together they sighed forth
all the poetry of human tenderness.

When Faust sang:

"Laisse-moi, laisse-moi contempler ton visage,"

in the notes that soared