n Olivie--you were like a daughter to him, I
know it, he told me. I was his adopted son. I tried to repay him for his
interest in a young, unknown poet and composer--well, I compose a bit,
you know--and I feel that I pleased him in my libretto of 'The Iron
Virgin.' You remember the summer I spent at Nuremberg digging up the old
legend, and the numberless times I visited the torture chamber where
stands the real Iron Virgin, her interior studded with horrid spikes
that cruelly stabbed the wretches consigned to her diabolical embraces?
You recall all this?" he went on, his vivacity increasing. "Now on the
night of the successful termination of our artistic enterprise, the
night when all Paris is ringing with the name of Patel, with 'The Iron
Virgin'"--he did not dare to add his own name--"let me tell you what
you know already: I love you, Olivie. I have always loved you and I
offer you my love, knowing that our dear one--" She dragged her hand
from his too exultant grasp and sat down breathless on a low couch. Her
eye never left his and he wavered at the thought of following her.

"So this is the true reason for your friendship!" she protested in
sorrowful accents. "For this you cultivated the good graces of an
unsuspecting old man." "Olivie!" he exclaimed. "For this," she sternly
pursued, "you sought my company after his death. Oh, Chardon! Robert!
How could you be so soon unfaithful to the memory of a man who loved
you? He loved you, Robert, he made you! Without him what would you be?"
"What am I?" She did not reply for she was gazing at the portrait over
the fireplace. "A neglected genius," she mused. "He was forced to
conduct operas to support his life--and mine. Yet he composed a
masterpiece. He composed 'The Iron Virgin.'" "Could he have done it
without me?" Madame Patel turned upon him: "You ask such a question,
_you_?" Chardon paced between table and piano. He stopped to look at the
Munch picture and bit his lips: "The great, infinite cry of Nature! Much
Patel knew of music, of nature and her infinite cries." His excitement
increased with every step.

"Olivie Patel, we must come to an understanding. You wonder at that
picture, wonder what dread thing is happening. Perhaps the eyes are
looking into this room, peering into our souls, into my soul which is
black with sin and music." Like some timid men aroused he had begun to
shout. The woman half rose in alarm but he waved her back. His forehead,
full of power, an