was in a perfect flutter of happiness. Not often, you know, for
the leading tenor was in great demand at the homes of society
queens.

"Do you know," said Annette, petulantly, one evening, "I wish for
the old days at Pass Christian."

"So do I," he answered tenderly; "will you repeat them with me
next summer?"

"If I only could!" she gasped.

Still she might have been happy, had it not been for Madame
Dubeau,--Madame Dubeau, the flute-voiced leading soprano, who
wore the single dainty curl on her forehead, and thrilled her
audiences oftentimes more completely than the fisherman. Madame
Dubeau was La Juive to his Eleazar, Leonore to his Manfred, Elsa
to his Lohengrin, Aida to his Rhadames, Marguerite to his Faust;
in brief, Madame Dubeau was his opposite. She caressed him as
Mignon, pleaded with him as Michaela, died for him in "Les
Huguenots," broke her heart for love of him in "La Favorite."
How could he help but love her, Annette asked herself, how could
he? Madame Dubeau was beautiful and gifted and charming.

Once she whispered her fears to him when there was the meagrest
bit of an opportunity. He laughed. "You don't understand,
little one," he said tenderly; "the relations of professional
people to each other are peculiar. After you go to Paris, you
will know."