The Jewess did not refuse the invitation and began Gounod’s “Medje” in a voice which Von Sendlingen had room to admit had improved in tone and volumn, and would make her as worthy of the grand opera house as it had, five years before, of the Harmonista and its class.  Daniels quietly left the room, loth to disturb Clemenceau, whom that voice enthralled and who became more and more deeply submerged in the thoughts it engendered.  He suffered pain from the need to liberate his sorrows, confide his spirit and communicate his dreams.  And was not this singer the very one created to comfort him and lull him to rest?  Must he remain heroic and ridiculous in the indissoluble bond, and endure silently.  On Antonino he rested his mind and on Rebecca, the daughter of the eternally persecuted, he longed to rest his soul.

The greatness of this man and the purity of this gifted creature were so clearly made for one another that everybody divined and understood the unspoken, immaterial love.

What an oversight to have let Cesarine abduct him when it was Rebecca to whom chance had shown that he ought to belong!  If he had remained free till this second meeting, she would have been his wife, his companion his seventh day repose, and the mother of his earthly offspring instead of the immortal twins, genius and glory, which poorly consoled the childless husband!  As it was, the powers constituted would not allow them to dwell near each other.  She could only be the bride in the second life—­for eternity.  She loved him as few women had ever loved, because he was good, great and just—­and because he was unhappy.  No man existed in her eyes superior to him.  Nothing but death would set him free from the woman who had not appreciated him properly.  She had let pass the greatest bliss a woman can know on earth—­the love of a true heart and the protection of a great intellect.  If death struck them before the wife, Felix would behold Rebecca on the threshold of the unknown land where they would be united tor infinity.  Her creed did not warrant such a hope—­his said that in heaven there were no marriages, but her heart did not heed such sayings, and her feelings told her that thus things would come to pass.

She had concluded the piece of music.  She rose and, for the first time, gave Cesarine her hand.

“Farewell!” she said.

“Why say it now?” answered Madame Clemenceau, surprised.  “You are not going till to-morrow morning.”

“To-night!  I may not see you again, we have so many preparations to make.”

“Well, as you did not come here to see me, it is of no consequence.  Farewell!”

“I am your servant, madame,” said the Jewess, bowing.

“Ah, Hagar!” hissed she, “unmasked.”

“Farewell, Sarah!” retorted Rebecca, stung out of her equanimity by this sudden dart of the viper, but Cesarine said no more, and she proceeded steadily toward the door.

Clemenceau had preceded her thither.