He loves me! He lays at my feet an immense and tragic love. … He has carried me off for love!…He has imprisoned me with him, underground, for love!…But he respects me: he crawls, he moans, he weeps!…And, when I stood up, Raoul, and told him that I could only despise him if he did not, then and there, give me my liberty…he offered it…he offered to show me the mysterious road…Only…only he rose too…and I was made to remember that, though he was not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a genius, he remained the voice…for he sang. And I listened … and stayed!…That night, we did not exchange another word.
He sang me to sleep.
"When I woke up, I was alone, lying on a sofa in a simply furnished little bedroom, with an ordinary mahogany bedstead, lit by a lamp standing on the marble top of an old Louis-Phi
