It was the morning of the day of "Undine's" production. I had ridden over to the Pavilion from Paris to breakfast with Franzius and Eloise.

The rehearsal had almost wrecked Franzius, but he was all right now; the ship was built; only the launching remained. As to Eloise, in six months she had altered subtly yet marvellously. I had last seen her a girl in her bridal dress; she was now a woman, for in six months she had aged years, without gaining a wrinkle or losing a trace of the beauty of youth. Love had ripened her; her every movement was marked by that self-contained grace which comes from maturity of mind; the wild beauty of spring had vanished, giving place to the full beauty of summer—the grace of Demeter gazing upon the fields of immortal wheat.

It was the wish of both my guardian and myself that Franzius and Eloise should inhabit the Pavilion as much as they chose. We had offered the place to them, indeed, as a wedding gift, but the permission to live there was all they would take.

This morning we breakfasted with the windows open. The swallows had not come back, yet the wind that puffed the chintz curtains was warm as the wind of May. Its sound amidst the trees was like the sound of April walking in the woods.

We came out and walked to the cottage of old Fauchard, whose wife was ill. Eloise had made her some soup, and she carried it in one of those tins the workmen use for their food.

The birds were calling to each other from tree to tree; clumps of violets were showing their blue amidst the brown of last autumn's fallen leaves, and the forest, half fledged, was breathing in the delicious breeze, sighing and shivering under the kiss of April.

It was no poetic fancy that presence which we felt around us, that call to which every fibre of my being responded. It was very real, and reaching far. The swallows were listening to it away at Luxor and Carnac; it touched the sun-baked Pyramids and the reeds of the Mareotid lakes, that call from the green fields of France; fields that in a few short months were to be ploughed by the cannon and watered with blood and tears.

We came to Paris in the afternoon, and, leaving Eloise with the Vicomte at the Place VendÔme, I accompanied Franzius to the Opera House, where he had some business to transact.

The last rehearsal had taken place the day before, and the huge building seemed very grim, empty and deserted as it was.

"Franzius," I said, as we stood looking at the empty orchestra, "do you remember that night in the Schloss Lichtenberg when you and Marx and the rest of your band played in the great hall, and a child in his nightshirt peeped at you from the gallery?"

"My friend," replied Franzius, "do I remember? Ach Gott! but for that night I would never have met you, I would never have met Eloise, I would be now second violin at the Closerie de Lilas, a man without love and without a future. It is to you I owe all."

"Not a bit. It is to chance. And if it comes to that, it is to you I owe all. But for you I would have been killed that night in my sleep. You remember the hunting-song that held me—you gave me the words of it last autumn. I wish some time you would write out the music for me."

Franzius smiled; then, as if speaking with an effort: "It was to have been a surprise. I have written out the music of it for you; it is in the score of the opera; it forms part of the overture."

I have never felt more excited than I felt that night. Despite the assurance of Carvalho, I felt that the fate of my friend was hanging in the balance; and I am sure I felt far more nervous than he, for he seemed quite calm and certain of success.

We dined early, and he departed before us, for he was to conduct.

We arrived before the house was half filled, and took our places in M. le Vicomte's box, which was situated in the first tier. Then the flood-gates of the world where all the inhabitants are wealthy slowly opened; box after box became a galaxy of stars; diamonds, ribbons, and orders reflected the brilliant light which flooded the house, fans fluttered like gorgeous butterflies, and the house, no longer half deserted, became a scene of splendour filled with the perfume of flowers, the intoxication of brilliancy; and my heart leapt to think of Franzius as I had met him that night in the Boul' Miche, going along in his old threadbare coat, with his violin under his arm, poor, unfriended, and unknown, and to think of him now, like a magician, compelling the wealth and beauty of Europe to his will!

Ah, yes! there is something in genius after all, something in it, if it is not trampled to death by fools before it has time to expand its wings.

The Empress was unable to attend, but the Emperor was there; and in the box with him were the Duc de Gramont and the Duc de Bassano. The Faubourg St. Germain was there, and the ChaussÉe d'Antin, old nobility and new, at daggers drawn, yet brought under the same roof by Art.

There was an electrical feeling in the place, a something I could not describe, till the Vicomte de Chatellan gave it a name.

"Success is in the air!" said he; then it seemed to me that I could hear her wings, that glorious goddess more beautiful than the Athena of the Parthenon.

And now from the orchestra came the complaint of the violin-strings, proclaiming their readiness, and the deep, gasping grunts of the 'cellos, saying as plainly as 'cellos could speak: "Begin! begin!" And there was Franzius, in correct evening attire (how different from the long coat of the Schloss Lichtenberg!), and I was swept right back to the gallery overlooking the hall; and it seemed to me that I was standing once more in my nightshirt, looking down at the guests, at General Hahn, and my father, and the Countess Feliciani; at Major von der Goltz, at the jÄgers crowding to the doorway, and then—three taps of the conductor's magic bÂton; and with the first bars of the overture, Spring, who had been walking all day in the forest of SÈnart, Spring herself entered the Opera House; the rush of the wind over leagues of blowing trees swept Paris and the glittering ceiling away; and the jewels and decorations, the Faubourg St. Germain and the ChaussÉe d'Antin, became trash under the blue of immortal skies.

"All things bright and all things fair," sang the music, flowing and beautiful, gemmed with star-like points of song. The skylark called from the seventh heaven, and the wind and the rivers, the echoes of the hills, the shepherd's song and the bells of sheep, the dim blue violets and dancing daffodils made answer, heaven echoing earth, earth heaven, till, deepening and changing, as a landscape stained with cloud shadows, the music became overcast as if by the shadow of that tragic figure Man. Man, for whom Spring is everything, and for whom Spring cares not at all. Man, who gives a soul to Nature as her mortal lover gave a soul to Undine; Man, who pursues a shadow for ever, even as the mysterious hunters in the hunting-song pursued the shadow stag.

Yes; there it was, the song that seemed woven in the texture of my life; and as I sat, holding Eloise's hand and listening, it seemed to me that the overture of "Undine" was in some way connected with the story of my life, so gay and joyous in the opening bars, deepening now and shadowed by Fate.

There it was, the horn and the echoes of the horn leading the shadowy dogs and the ghostly huntsmen—where? In pursuit of a shadow. Whither?

That was the last mysterious message of the overture, in whose last bars, sublime and peaceful, lay spread the mysterious country where all hunting ceases, recalling from the loveliest of poems that country where Orion, the hunter of the shadowy stag, possessed of Merope, dwells with her in a remote and dense grove of cedars for ever and happily, whilst the tamed shadow-stag drinks for ever at the stream.

When the curtain fell on the first act of "Undine," the opera was already a success.

"Ah, yes," said M. le Vicomte, "that is music. Beside it, the drumming and trumpeting of Wagner sound like the noise of a village fair." Then, turning to Eloise: "My congratulations." Then he left the box, to talk to friends and take his share in the incipient triumph.

It was really a triumph for him. He had boasted at the clubs of the new musician he had discovered; and it was a supreme satisfaction to him that his diamond had not turned out to be a piece of glass.

"Eloise," said I, "it's a success already; and if I had written ten thousand operas of my own, and they had all been successful on the same night, I would not feel the pleasure I feel now. Dear old Franzius——"

As if the name had called for an answer, a light knock came to the door of the box. The door opened, and Baron Carl von Lichtenberg stood before me. M. le Duc de Choiseul and the Marquis de MÉrode, two well-known boulevardiers, stood behind him.

"Monsieur," said Von Lichtenberg, advancing towards me, "I have sought you in many places without avail since the incident which occurred at the Mirlitons, on the 1st of October last. I sought you to pay you this compliment." And he flicked me on the shoulder with the white glove which he had drawn from his hand.

I bowed, and he withdrew.

That was all. A deadly insult, very nicely wrapped up, lay in "this compliment"—and he had struck me.

Ah, well! it was to be. Although I was a living man with a will of my own, it seemed that my will could not prevent my meeting Von Lichtenberg; and, to point the matter, the challenge would have to come from me. I could not escape. Heaven knows I have a sufficiency of animal courage, yet for a moment the thought came to me of leaving Paris and ignoring the insult, sacrificing honour and name rather than submit to the unknown destination towards which Fate was driving me. Some instinct told me that this duel would have consequences far beyond what I could imagine; that it was a turning-point in my life, having passed which my fate would be irremediably fixed.

Only for a moment came the suicidal thought of flight, to be immediately dismissed. Let come what might, it was not my fault. I would send my seconds to Von Lichtenberg in the morning. Then I turned to Eloise, and found her leaning against the side of the box, pale, and seemingly in a fainting state.

"I am all right," she murmured, "but, oh, Toto, it was his face!"

"His face?"

"His face I saw deep down in the water of the moat, drowned, and with the weeds floating across it."

I remembered that day when, leaning on the drawbridge rail, and looking down into the moat water, she had seen what seemed a face.

"Eloise," I said, taking her hands in mine, "come to yourself. The second act is about to begin. Do not let other people see you pale like this. What matters it? He and I have an account to settle: what matters it? You have Franzius to think of. Listen to me. Do you know who he is? He is Baron Carl von Lichtenberg—he was little Carl. Do you remember the gardens of Lichtenberg and the drum, and how we marched away into the forest——"

And before Eloise could answer, the Vicomte returned, and the curtain rose on the forest of the lovely land where Undine met her lover.

The opera was a great success. Not since the marvellous first night of "The Barber of Seville" had Paris shown such enthusiasm. But the pleasure was dimmed for me, and I saw everything at a distance.

During the interval between the second and third acts, I sent a message to De Brissac and another friend who were in the house, to meet me at the Place VendÔme that night; and towards one in the morning we met in my apartments, and I gave them their commission.

Then I went to bed and to sleep, with the music of "Undine" ringing in my ears, and in my heart the knowledge of Franzius' triumph, and the knowledge that I had helped him to it.

At eleven o'clock next morning De Brissac was announced.

Von Lichtenberg had accepted my challenge, with an extraordinary proviso: the duel was not to take place till that day three months.

"He will fight you to-day if you press the point," said De Brissac, "but he asked me to lay before you the fact that he will require three months in which to arrange his affairs, which are partly political. He added," continued De Brissac grimly, "that, as you have evaded him for three months and more, you cannot in courtesy refuse him this favour."

"I accept. So he added that—another insult!"

"He is a strange person," said De Brissac, "though in all outward respects a perfect nobleman. He is a strange person, and I do not care for him. In my eyes this is a forced business—une mauvaise querelle."

"There have been several duels to the death between our houses," replied I. "Well, let it be so. On the 5th of July we shall meet."