ay in the bedlam of shrieks and clattering of dishes and
knives. I walked firmly upstairs, found my coat and hat, and left the
house forever. It was my first and last experience at that occidental
version of the Hara-Kiri, called a musicale.

THE IRON VIRGIN

For there is order in the streets, but in the
soul--confusion.

--MAXIM GORKY.

The carriage stood awaiting them in the Place Boieldieu. Chardon told
the coachman to drive rapidly; then closed the door upon Madame Patel
and himself. Cautiously traversing the crowded boulevards they reached
the Madeleine; a sharp turn to the left, down the Rue Royale, they were
soon crossing the vast windy spaces of the Place de la Concorde and
there he spoke to his companion.

"It was a glorious victory! The Opera Comique looked like a battlefield
after the conflict." Chardon's voice trembled as if with timidity.
Madame Patel turned from the half-opened window.

"Yes, a glorious triumph. And _he_ is not here to enjoy it, to exult
over his detractors." Her tone was bitter as winter.

"My poor friend," the other answered as he laid his hand gently on her
arm. She shuddered. "Are you cold? Shall I close the window?" "Thanks,
no; it is too warm. How long this ride seems! Yet he always delighted
in it after conducting." Chardon was silently polite. They were riding
now at high speed along the Avenue Montaigne which the carriage had
entered after leaving the Champs Elysees. From the Quai de Billy to the
Quai de Passy their horses galloped over naked well-lighted avenues. The
cool of the river penetrated them and the woman drew herself back into
the corner absorbed in depressing memories. Along Mirabeau and Molitor,
after passing the Avenue de Versailles; and when the street called
Boileau appeared the carriage, its lanterns shooting tiny shafts of
light on the road, headed for the _Hameau_, named after the old poet of
Auteuil. There it stopped. Madame Patel and Chardon, a moment later,
were walking slowly down the broad avenue of trees through which drawled
the bourdon of the breeze this night in early May.

It was one o'clock when they entered the pretty little house, formerly
the summer retreat of the dead composer Patel. A winner of the _Prix de
Rome_ he had produced many operas and oratorios until his death, just a
year previous to the _premiere_ of "The Iron Virgin." Of its immense
success widow and librettist were in no doubt. Had they not witnessed it