"A beautiful woman who is a Socialist, Gretchen, is a menace to the King. Sometimes he fears her. At large, she is dangerous. He seeks her, and if he finds her, he takes away her liberty." All this was said with a definite purpose. It was to let Gretchen know that I knew her secret. "Gretchen, you are an embryo Socialist; a chrysalis, as it were."
"No, Herr," sadly; "I am a butterfly whose wings have been clipped."
I had not expected this admission,
"Never mind," said I. "Gretchen, I do not want you to call me Herr; call me Jack."
"Jack!" she said. It became an uncommon name now.
"Whatever your true name may be, I shall never call you anything but
Gretchen."
"Ah, Jack!" She laughed, and the lurking echoes clasped the music of that laughter in their wanton arms and hurried it across the river.
"Sing to me," said I.
Then imagine my surprise—I, who had heard nothing but German fall from her lips?—when in a heavenly contralto she sang a chanson from "La Fille de Madame Angot," an opera forgotten these ten years!
"Elle est tellement innocente!"