and then struck in with a very sweet baritone:
Oui, c’est un rêve—
She never moved, but her voice swelled out fresh and clear in answer to his, and a really charming duet came to a delightful finish. Then she looked up. Gethryn was reckless now.
“Shall it be, then, only a dream?” he laughed. Was it his fate that made him lean out and whisper, “Is it, then, only a dream, Hélène?”
There was nothing but the rustling of the chestnut branches to answer his folly. Not another sound. He was half inclined to shut his window and go in, well satisfied with the silence and beginning to feel sleepy. All at once from below came a faint laugh, and as he leaned out he caught the words:
“Paris, Hélène bids you good night!”
“Ah, Belle Hélène!”—he began, but was cut short by the violent opening of a window opposite.
“Bon dieu de bon dieu!” howled an injured gentleman. “To sleep is impossible, tas d’imbeciles!—”
And Hélène’s window closed with a snap.