Chardon laughed, shook her hand, put on his top-coat and descended the
steps that led into the garden.

"Where are you going?" she asked affrightedly, regret stirring within
her. "To Nuremberg to see the real iron virgin," he answered without
sarcasm. They looked hard into each other's eyes--his were glowing like
restless red coals--and then he plunged down the path leaving her
strained and shaken to the very centre of her virginal soul. Had he
spoken the truth! Ambroise Patel, upon whose grave would be strown
flowers that belonged to the living! It was vile, the idea. "Robert!"
she cried.

A smoky, yellow morning mist hung over Auteuil. A long, slow rain fell
softly. Chardon pulled the chord at the gate of the _Hameau_ roughly
summoning the _concierge_. He soon found himself under the viaduct on
the Boulevard Exelmans, where he walked until he reached Point-du-Jour.
There a few workingmen about to take the circular railway to Batignolles
regarded him cynically. He seemed like a man in the depths of a crazy
debauch. He blundered on toward the Seine. "The echo! god of thunders,
the echo!" he moaned as he heard his steps resound in the hollow arches.
Near the water's edge he found a cafe and sat before a damp tin table.
He pounded it with his walking stick. "The iron virgin," he roared; and
laughed at the joke until the tears rolled over his tremulous chin.
Lifting his inflamed eyes to the dirty little waiter he again brought
his cane heavily upon the table. "Garcon," he clamored "the iron
virgin!" The waiter brought absinthe; Chardon drank five. Doggedly he
began his long journey.

DUSK OF THE GODS

A MASQUE OF MUSIC

Stannum invited the pianist to his apartment several times, but concert
engagements intervened, and when Herr Bech actually appeared his host
did not attempt to conceal his pleasure. He admired the playing of the
distinguished virtuoso, and said so privately and in print. Bech was a
rare specimen of that rapidly disappearing order--the artist who knows
all composers equally well. Not poetic, nor yet a pedantic classicist,
he played Bach and Brahms with intellectual clearness and romantic
fervor. All these things Stannum noted, and the heart of him grew elate
as Bech sat down to the big concert piano that stood in the middle of
his studio. It was a room of few lights and lofty, soft shadows; and the
air was as free from sound as a diving bell. Stannum leaned back on his
wicker couch smoking a c