_foyer_--all talked together in their
excitement. The tenor, half lying on a couch, caressed his black beard,
while he listened with nonchalance to the entreaties addressed to him.
But the moment was rapidly approaching when the fatal announcement must
be made to the audience.

Presently a voice began to sing the jewel song from Faust. The singer
was at the piano in the _foyer_, but was so enveloped in black lace that
she could hardly be seen. Her voice was so good, her method so perfect,
that every one listened in delight. Even the tenor, for he was a
thorough musician, was completely carried away.

The lady finished the song, then rising from her seat she stood leaning
against the piano without the smallest embarrassment.

The tenor went forward. "Madame," he said, "do you know the duet we were
about to sing?"

The singer reseated herself at the piano and playing a prelude, sang two
or three bars with exquisite expression.

"Madame," began the tenor.

"Mademoiselle," corrected the lady, raising her vail.

"You have a hundred times more talent than Mademoiselle X."

"We will not talk of her, and she must always remain in ignorance of
this defection of one of her greatest admirers."

But the feeling against the prima donna was that day of excessive
bitterness, and every one agreed with the tenor.

"Will you sing with me?" asked the tenor.

The lady answered, "As this fete is for charity, I cannot decline."

The director then said:

"We will express our thanks later, dear lady; please give me your name
that I may make the announcement."

The tenor lifted his head.

"I will lead the lady on, and that is quite enough."

When the public saw that the singer was not the celebrated X. they were
for a moment confounded, but the tenor was the guaranty, he could not be
mistaken. The duet began; never had the tenor sang so well.

The unknown was a thorough artist. She looked like a statue of Passion,
as she stood at the piano, and her triumph was so great that it was the
talk of Paris for three days. But the strangest part of all was, that
after receiving this ovation she disappeared. The reporters could not
find her. Finally one of them, more indefatigable than the others,
discovered her in a small hotel on the Champs Elysees. Her name was
inscribed as Jane Zeld, from Russia, and she was accompanied by an
intendant named Maslenes.

The reporter, armed with this information, proceeded to concoct a
legend. Sh