that she was just out of school, and that this was her first trip to
Paris. I occasionally stole a glance at her, and each time I did so my
heart leaped into my throat. Once I glanced beyond to the gentleman
who sat next to her. My glance immediately turned into a stare. Yes,
there he was, unmistakably, my father! looking hardly a day older than
when I had seen him some ten years before. What a strange coincidence!
What should I say to him? What would he say to me? Before I had
recovered from my first surprise, there came another shock in the
realization that the beautiful, tender girl at my side was my sister.
Then all the springs of affection in my heart, stopped since my
mother's death, burst out in fresh and terrible torrents, and I could
have fallen at her feet and worshiped her. They were singing the
second act, but I did not hear the music. Slowly the desolate
loneliness of my position became clear to me. I knew that I could not
speak, but I would have given a part of my life to touch her hand with
mine and call her "sister." I sat through the opera until I could
stand it no longer. I felt that I was suffocating. Valentine's love
seemed like mockery, and I felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to
rise up and scream to the audience: "Here, here in your very midst, is
a tragedy, a real tragedy!" This impulse grew so strong that I became
afraid of myself, and in the darkness of one of the scenes I stumbled
out of the theatre. I walked aimlessly about for an hour or so, my
feelings divided between a desire to weep and a desire to curse. I
finally took a cab and went from café to café, and for one of the very
few times in my life drank myself into a stupor.

It was unwelcome news for me when my benefactor--I could not think of
him as employer--informed me that he was at last tired of Paris. This
news gave me, I think, a passing doubt as to his sanity. I had enjoyed
life in Paris, and, taking all things into consideration, enjoyed it