“Listen now, Mr. Chatterbox,” said Zoe.
Ned Severne composed himself to listen; but Fraulein Graas had not sung many bars before he revolted. “Listen to what?” said he; “and look at what? The only Marguerite in the place is by my side.”
Zoe colored with pleasure; but her good sense was not to be blinded. “The only good black Mephistophe-less you mean,” said she. “To be Marguerite, one must be great, and sweet, and tender; yes, and far more lovely than ever woman was. That lady is a better color for the part than I am; but neither she nor I shall ever be Marguerite.”
He murmured in her ear. “You are Marguerite, for you could fire a man's heart so that he would sell his soul to gain you.”
It was the accent of passion and the sensitive girl quivered. Yet she defended herself—in words, “Hush!” said she. “That is wicked—out of an opera. Fanny would laugh at you, if she heard.”
Here were two reasons for not making such hot love in the stalls of an opera. Which of the two weighed most with the fair reasoner shall be left to her own sex.
The brief scene ended with the declaration of the evil spirit that Marguerite is lost.
“There,” said Zoe, naively, “that is over, thank goodness: now you will hear my singer.”
Siebel and Marta came on from opposite sides of the stage. “See!” said Zoe, “isn't she lovely?” and she turned her beaming face full on Severne, to share her pleasure with him. To her amazement the man seemed transformed: a dark cloud had come over his sunny countenance. He sat, pale, and seemed to stare at the tall, majestic, dreamy singer, who stood immovable, dressed like a velvet youth, yet looking like no earthly boy, but a draped statue of Mercury,
“New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.”