She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. “Why destroy me, child? There are so many secrets I 231 could tell you. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. She felt his tongue press into her mouth.
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