But some little distance behind him, someone had come out from the shadow of the building and, seeing the Frenchman reappear, darted back again as quickly. She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast. I believe I’m in love.
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