‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. He had not had time to aim the pistol. “Have you anything to ask the witness?” asked the helpful inspector. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. 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. For some time after he was locked up in this prison Jack continued in a very dejected state.
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