That angel from the North must be very artful! Raoul, behind the curtain of his hands that veiled his boyish tears, thought only of the letter which he received on his return to Paris, where Christine, fleeing from Perros like a thief in the night, had arrived before him: MY DEAR LITTLE PLAYFELLOW: You must have the courage not to see me again, not to speak of me again.

If you love me just a little, do this for me, for me who will never forget you, my dear Raoul.

My life depends upon it.

Your life depends upon it.

YOUR LITTLE CHRISTINE.
Thunders of applause.