Slowly, one by one, the lights in the French Opera go out, until
there is but a single glimmer of pale yellow flickering in the
great dark space, a few moments ago all a-glitter with jewels and
the radiance of womanhood and a-clash with music. Darkness now,
and silence, and a great haunted hush over all, save for the
distant cheery voice of a stage hand humming a bar of the opera.

The glimmer of gas makes a halo about the bowed white head of a
little old man putting his violin carefully away in its case with
aged, trembling, nervous fingers. Old M'sieu Fortier was the
last one out every night.

Outside the air was murky, foggy. Gas and electricity were but
faint splotches of light on the thick curtain of fog and mist.
Around the opera was a mighty bustle of carriages and drivers and
footmen, with a car gaining headway in the street now and then, a
howling of names and numbers, the laughter and small talk of
cloaked society stepping slowly to its carriages, and the more
bourgeoisie vocalisation of the foot passengers who streamed
along and hummed little bits of music. The fog's denseness was
confusing, too, and at one moment it seemed that the little
narrow street would become inextricably choked and remain so
until some mighty engine would blow the crowd into atoms. It had
been a crowded night. From around Toulouse Street, where led the
entrance to the troisiemes, from the grand stairway, from the
entrance to the quatriemes, the human stream poured into the
street, nearly all with a song on their lips.

M'sieu Fortier stood at the corner, blinking at the beautiful
ladies in their carriages. He exchanged a hearty salutation with