Paris lay sparkling under a cold, clear sky. The brilliant streets lay coiled along the Seine and stretched glittering from bank to bank, from boulevard to boulevard; cafés, brasseries, concert halls and theaters in the yellow blaze of gas and the white and violet of electricity.
It was not late, but people who entered the lobby of the Theater Fauvette turned away before the placard “Standing room only.”
Somewhere in the city a bell sounded the hour, and with the last stroke the drop curtain fell on the first act of “La Belle Hélène.”
It fell amidst a whirlwind of applause, in which the orchestra led.
The old leader of the violins shook his head, however. He had been there twenty years, and he had never before heard of such singing in comic opera.
“No, no,” he said, “she can’t stay here. Dame! she sings!”
Madame Bordier was pale and happy; her good husband was weak with joy. The members of the troupe had not yet had time to be jealous and they, too, applauded.
As for the house, it was not only conquered, it was wild with enthusiasm. The lobbies were thronged.
Braith ran up against Rowden and Elliott.
“By Jove!” they cried, with one voice, “who’d have thought the little girl had all that in her? I say, Braith, does Rex know about her? When is he coming?”