The orchestra began again, they played a little haunting melody which laid a sudden hand upon Jean’s heart. He knew this music better than any other, for he himself had written it for Margot.
It was called La plainte de l’amour.
Out of the flowers and the lights his gaze met Margot’s.
Margot’s eyes were very serious, very haunting, very grave. Her voice rose like a creature spreading great wings.
It was Jean’s music, La plainte de l’amour, but it was Margot’s heart.
Paris, that loves its dear, light mockeries, loves simple pathos too; not quite so much, perhaps; but the Manager was not dissatisfied with Margot’s applause.
Margot bowed and smiled and stooped to pick up her splendid trophies; and Jean sprang to his feet, waved his hat and stick and applauded like the rest. Cartier saw that the transfiguration had come to him; he was no longer a creature of a different world. He hesitated for a moment, then he said: “You will come round to her—now?”
But Margot’s turn was over; she had slipped away with her arms full of flowers.
Jean put his hand on Cartier’s shoulder.
“No! no!” he said. “I will not go round, mon vieux! Cela suffit—we have already parted!