e did not
distinguish herself at all, attending the classes without enthusiasm
and taking a prize only to please old Mamma Valerius, with whom she
continued to live.

The first time that Raoul saw Christine at the Opera, he was charmed by
the girl's beauty and by the sweet images of the past which it evoked,
but was rather surprised at the negative side of her art. He returned
to listen to her. He followed her in the wings. He waited for her
behind a Jacob's ladder. He tried to attract her attention. More than
once, he walked after her to the door of her box, but she did not see
him. She seemed, for that matter, to see nobody. She was all
indifference. Raoul suffered, for she was very beautiful and he was
shy and dared not confess his love, even to himself. And then came the
lightning-flash of the gala performance: the heavens torn asunder and
an angel's voice heard upon earth for the delight of mankind and the
utter capture of his heart.

And then ... and then there was that man's voice behind the door--"You
must love me!"--and no one in the room...

Why did she laugh when he reminded her of the incident of the scarf?
Why did she not recognize him? And why had she written to him? ...

Perros was reached at last. Raoul walked into the smoky sitting-room
of the Setting Sun and at once saw Christine standing before him,
smiling and showing no astonishment.

"So you have come," she said. "I felt that I should find you here,
when I came back from mass. Some one told me so, at the church."

"Who?" asked Raoul, taking her little hand in his.

"Why, my poor father, who is dead."

There was a silence; and then Raoul asked:

"Did your father tell you that I love you, Christine, and that I can
not live without you?"

Christine blushed to the eyes and turned away her head. In a trembling
voice, she said:

"Me? You are dreaming, my friend!"

And she burst out laughing, to put herself in countenance.

"Don't laugh, Christine; I am quite serious," Raoul answered.

And she replied gravely: "I did not make you come to tell me such
things as that."

"You 'made me come,' Christine; you knew that your letter would not
leave me indignant and that I should hasten to Perros. How can you
have thought that, if you did not think I loved you?"

"I thought you would remember our games here, as children, in which my
father so often joined. I really don't know what I thought... Perhaps
I was wrong to write to