In spite of his resistance she was forcing herself nearer to him. The magic of her presence was binding him.
"Am I less beautiful?" she whispered. "Have I lost anything that used to draw you? Is not my hair as golden? Are not my eyes as bright—my lips as red? Am I not as soft to touch? Where could you find anything better than me?"
"Keep back!" he muttered.
Her hands were about him. In the darkness he could feel the deadly loveliness of her face almost touching his own. He was yielding, inch by inch. The warmth of her breath ... the perfume of her body.... Her closeness was intoxicating—maddening.
"Oh, let me come to you," she prayed. "I will follow you barefooted to the end of the world. I will live for you—slave for you—die for you. Only let me come. Let me leave all this—and come to you ... to-morrow...."
A groan was wrung from him. He crushed her to him.
"Come then!" he cried desperately. "Come, if you will!..."
A vivid flash, which seemed to burst almost over their heads, showed them locked in each other's arms, their lips pressed together.
Monsieur Dupont raised himself quickly. There was the sound of running footsteps on the path behind him. Monsieur Dupont had just time to turn the corner before the disordered figure of the theatrical manager loomed up before him.