Max's fingers tightened. "Ah, but listen now, my friend!"

Blake turned to him in quick appreciation. "Good! Good! You are an
artist! That's Louise singing in the third act, on the day she is to be
Muse of Montmartre. It is up here in the little house her lover has
provided for her; it is twilight, and she is in the garden, looking down
upon all this"--he waved his hand comprehensively--"it is her
moment--the triumph and climax of love. Try to think what she is
saying!" He paused, and they stood breathless and enchained, while the
violin trembled under the hand of its master, vibrant and penetrating.

"What is it she says?" Max whispered the words.

Blake's reply was to murmur the burden of the song in the same hushed
way as he had spoken the song of the _Noctambule_.

"Depuis le jour où je me suis donnée, toute fleurie semble ma
destinée.
Je crois rêver sous un ciel de féerie, l'âme encore grisée de ton
premier baiser!"

But, abruptly--abruptly as a light might be extinguished--the music
ceased, and Max released Blake's hand.

"It is all most wonderful," he said; "but the words of that song--they
do not quite please me."

"Why? Have you never sung that '_l'âme encore grisée de ton premier
baiser_!'"