Presently we had left the borders of the drowsy Seine, which is so

busy by day, so strangely silent by night. We crossed the immense

Place de la Concorde. Once again we were rolling smoothly along the

Champs Elysées. Only a few hours before we had driven through this

very avenue, Rosa and I, but with what different feelings from those

which possessed us now! How serene and quiet it was! Occasionally a

smooth-gliding carriage, or a bicyclist flitting by with a Chinese

lantern at the head of his machine--that was all. As we approached

the summit of the hill where the Arc de Triomphe is, a new phenomenon

awaited us. The moon rose--a lovely azure crescent over the houses,

and its faint mild rays were like a benediction upon us. Then we had

turned to the left, and were in the Bois de Boulogne. We stopped the

carriage under the trees, which met overhead; the delicatest breeze

stirred the branches to a crooning murmur. All around was solitude and

a sort of hushed expectation. Suddenly Rosa put her hand into mine,

and with a simultaneous impulse we got out of the carriage and

strolled along a by-path.

"Carl," she said, "I have a secret for you. But you must tell no one."

She laughed mischievously.

"What is it?" I answered, calmly smiling.

"It is that I love you," and she buried her face against my shoulder.

"Tell me that again," I said, "and again and again."

And so under the tall rustling trees we exchanged vows--vows made more

sacred by the bitterness of our experience. And then at last, much to

the driver's satisfaction, we returned to the carriage, and were

driven back to the Rue de Rivoli. I gave the man a twenty-franc

piece; certainly the hour was unconscionably late.

I bade good night, a reluctant good night, to Rosa at the entrance to

her flat.

"Dearest girl," I said, "let us go to England to-morrow. You are

almost English, you know; soon you will be the wife of an Englishman,

and there is no place like London."

"True," she answered. "There is no place like London. We'll go. The

Opéra Comique will manage without me. And I will accept no more

engagements for a very, very long time. Money doesn't matter. You have

enough, and I--oh, Carl, I've got stacks and piles of it. It's so

easy, if you have a certain sort of throat like mine, to make more

money than you can spend."




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