Faust was contemptible and Siebel impossible, Margaret
and Mephistopheles saved all from failure. She was pretty and refined,
with a certain touching pathos that appealed to her hearers. She sang
with grace, too, but her voice was made for nothing larger than a
drawing-room, and when the orchestra crashed out the dramatic parts, we
had to imagine a great deal.

Siebel was the great stumbling-block and burlesque; her singing and
acting so excruciating that when the audience ought to have melted to
tears they laughed aloud. When Valentine died she clasped her hands, not
in despair but admiration of the fine performance, looked at the
audience as much as to say, "Would you not like him to get up and die
again?" and when his body was carried off, skipped after it, as though
assisting at some May-day frolic.

Faust was beneath criticism, and one felt angry with Margaret for
falling in love with him. In reality she must have hated him.
Mephistopheles, on the contrary, was admirable, and would have done
honour to Her Majesty's in the days of Titiens and Trebelli.

The "Old Men's Chorus" was crowning triumph of the performance. Three
decrepit objects came forward and quavered through their song. When it
was ended the audience insisted upon having it all over again, whilst
they kept up a running accompaniment of laughter, in which the old men
joined as they retreated into the background.

Altogether it was a successful evening. Every one left in good humour,
and many were charmed.

We went out into the night, glad to exchange the atmosphere. It looked
doubly dark after the brilliancy of the house. Every light was out,
every house buried in profound slumber. We turned to the bridge, and
stood there until all the playgoers had streamed homewards, and silence
and solitude reigned. Once more the chestnut-roasters had departed and
their sacrificial altars were cold and dead. Down the boulevard not a
creature was visible. Stalls and booths were closed, torches
extinguished. The leaves of the trees gently rustled and murmured in the
night wind. We almost felt as though we still saw Ernesto and his mother
walking up and down in close companionship. It must have been their
astral bodies. Both no doubt were slumbering, and perhaps the same
vision haunted their dreams; broken windows and four-footed
victims--seen from different points of view.

In the firmament a great change had taken place. The clouds had rolled
away; not a vapour