Lucia dismissed the rumors, as it was not likely an archbishop would renege on his duties to become her personal doctor. 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. A conviction that her sister’s words were true had from the first possessed her. This was the bitterest hour he had ever known.
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