Gethryn rose and walked to his window, threw it open and leaned out.
An April night, soft and delicious. The air was heavy with perfume
from the pink and white chestnut blossoms. The roof dripped with
moisture. Far down in the dark court the gas-jets flickered and
flared. From the distance came the softened rumble of a midnight cab,
which, drawing nearer and nearer and passing the hotel with a
rollicking rattle of wheels and laughing voices, died away on the
smooth pavement by the Luxembourg Gardens. The voice had stopped
capriciously in the middle of the song. Gethryn turned back into the
room whistling the air. His eye fell on Satan sitting behind his bars
in crumpled malice.

"Poor old chap," laughed the master, "want to come out and hop
around a bit? Here, Gummidge, we'll remove temptation out of his
way," and he lifted the docile tabby, who increased the timbre of her
song to an ecstatic squeal at his touch, and opening his bedroom door,
gently deposited her on his softest blankets. He then reinstated the
raven on his bust of Pallas, and Satan watched him from thence warily
as he fussed about the studio, sorting brushes, scraping a neglected
palette, taking down a dressing gown, drawing on a pair of easy
slippers, opening his door and depositing his boots outside. When he
returned the music had begun again.

"What on earth does she mean by singing at a quarter to one
o'clock?" he thought, and went once more to the window. "Why -- that
is really beautiful."

Oui! c'est un reve, Oui! c'est un reve doux d'amour.
La nuit lui prete son mystere,
Il doit finir -- il doit finir avec le jour.