Harmony took a taxicab—­nothing must be spared now—­bribed the chauffeur to greater speed, arrived at the house and ran across the garden, still tearless, up the stairs, past Rosa on the upper flight, and rang the bell.

Marie admitted her with only a little gasp of surprise.  There was nothing to warn Peter.  One moment he sat by the bed, watch in hand, alone, drear, tragic-eyed.  The next he had glanced up, saw Harmony and went white, holding to the back of his chair.  Their eyes met, agony and hope in them, love and death, rapture and bitterness.  In Harmony’s, pleading, promise, something of doubt; in Peter’s, only yearning, as of empty arms.  Then Harmony dared to look at the bed and fell on her knees in a storm of grief beside it.  Peter bent over and gently stroked her hair.

Le Grande was singing; the boxes were full.  In the body of the immense theater waiters scurried back and forward among the tables.  Everywhere was the clatter of silver and steel on porcelain, the clink of glasses.  Smoke was everywhere—­pipes, cigars, cigarettes.  Women smoked between bites at the tables, using small paper or silver mouthpieces, even a gold one shone here and there.  Men walked up and down among the diners, spraying the air with chemicals to clear it.  At a table just below the stage sat the red-bearded Dozent with the lady of the photograph.  They were drinking cheap native wines and were very happy.

From the height of his worldly wisdom he was explaining the people to her.

“In the box—­don’t stare, Liebchen, he looks—­is the princeling I have told you of.  Roses, of course.  Last night it was orchids.”

“Last night!  Were you here?” He coughed.

“I have been told, Liebchen.  Each night he sits there, and when she finishes her song he rises in the box, kisses the flowers and tosses them to her.”

“Shameless!  Is she so beautiful?”

“No.  But you shall see.  She comes.”

Le Grande was very popular.  She occupied the best place on the program; and because she sang in American, which is not exactly English and more difficult to understand, her songs were considered exceedingly risque.  As a matter of fact they were merely ragtime melodies, with a lilt to them that caught the Viennese fancy, accustomed to German sentinental ditties and the artificial forms of grand opera.  And there was another reason for her success.  She carried with her a chorus of a dozen pickaninnies.

In Austria darkies were as rare as cats, and there were no cats! 
So the little chorus had made good.

Each day she walked in the Prater, ermine from head to foot, and behind her two by two trailed twelve little Southern darkies in red-velvet coats and caps, grinning sociably.  When she drove a pair sat on the boot.

Her voice was strong, not sweet, spoiled by years of singing against dishes and bottles in smoky music halls; spoiled by cigarettes and absinthe and foreign cocktails that resembled their American prototypes as the night resembles the day.