The song of Helene ceased. Gethryn leaned out and gazed down at the
lighted windows under his. Suddenly the light went out. He heard
someone open the window, and straining his eyes, could just discern
the dim outline of a head and shoulders, unmistakably those of a girl.
She had perched herself on the windowsill. Presently she began to hum
the air, then to sing it softly. Gethryn waited until the words came
again:

Oui, c'est un reve --

and then struck in with a very sweet baritone:

Oui, c'est un reve --

She never moved, but her voice swelled out fresh and clear in answer
to his, and a really charming duet came to a delightful finish. Then
she looked up. Gethryn was reckless now.

"Shall it be, then, only a dream?" he laughed. Was it his fate that
made him lean out and whisper, "Is it, then, only a dream, Helene?"

There was nothing but the rustling of the chestnut branches to answer
his folly. Not another sound. He was half inclined to shut his window
and go in, well satisfied with the silence and beginning to feel
sleepy. All at once from below came a faint laugh, and as he leaned
out he caught the words:

"Paris, Helene bids you good night!"