, echoes Ambroise Patel."

She watched him until his color began to return. "Robert," she said
almost kindly, "Robert, the excitement of to-night has upset your
nerves. Drink some brandy, and sit down." He eyed her piteously, then
covered his face with nervous hands, his hair falling over them. She
felt surer of him. "You called me an echo a moment ago, Robert," she
resumed, her voice deepening. "I can never forget Patel. And it was
because of this and because of my last promise to him that your offer
shocked me; I ask your pardon for my rudeness. You have been so like a
brother for the past years that marriage seems sacrilegious. Come, let
us be friends--we have been trusty comrades. 'The Iron Virgin' is a
success"--"Yes," he whispered, "the iron virgin is always a success."
"--and why should our friendship merely be an echo of the past? Come,
let us be more united than ever, Patel, you and I." Her smooth voice
became vibrant as she pointed triumphantly at the portrait. He followed
her with dull eyes from which all fire had fled.

"The echo," he said, drinking a tumbler of brandy. "The echo! I have it
now: they _see_ the echo in that picture back of me. Munch is the first
man who painted tone; put on canvas that ape of music, of our souls, the
ape which mocks us, leaps out after our voice, is always ready to follow
us and show its leering shape when we pass under dark, vaulted bridges
or stand in the secret shadow of churches. The echo! What is the echo,
Olivie, you discoursed of so sweetly? It is the sound of our souls
escaping from some fissure of the brain. It has color, is a living
thing, the thin wraith that pursues man ever to his grave. Patel was an
echo. When his soul leans naked against the chill bar of heaven and
bears false witness, then his echo will tell the truth about his
music--this damnable reverberating _Doppelgaenger_ which sneaks into
corners and lies in wait for our guilty gliding footsteps." She began to
retreat again; she feared him, feared the hypnotism of his sad voice.
"Robert, I firmly believe that picture has bewitched you--you, a
believer in the brave philosophy of Nietzsche!" He moved toward her.
"Madame Patel, it is you who are the cruel follower of Nietzsche. So was
the original iron virgin; so is the new 'Iron Virgin' which I had the
honor to surround with--" "You mean instrumentation," she faltered. "Ah!
you acknowledge so much?"

"Patel told me."

"He did not tell you enough."