“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! c’est l’heure!” called the maid, shaking the door.
“Fool!” hissed her sister, “you think you will marry the American!”
“Mademoiselle Descartes! mais Mademoiselle Descartes!” cried Monsieur’s voice without.
“Let me go!” panted Yvonne, struggling wildly.
“Go!” screamed the woman, “go, and sing! You cannot marry him! He is dead!” and she struck the girl with her clenched fist.
The door, torn open, crashed behind her and immediately swung back again to admit Madame.
“My child! my child! What is it? What ails you? Quick, or it will be too late! Ah! try, try, my child!”
She was in tears of despair.
Taking her beseeching hand, Yvonne moved toward the stage.
“Oui, chère Madame!” she said.