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Through interminable hours the mind of Alixe revolved about a phrase she had picked up from Elvard Rentgen: "Music is a trap for weak souls; for the strong as the spinning of cobwebs...." It was pompous July and the Van Kuyps were still in Paris. They lived near Passy from her windows high in the air Alixe caught the green at dawn as the sun lifted level rays.
If she had gone late, it would have seemed an affectation, she reasoned. Her husband kept within doors; she could tell him all. And then, was there not Elvard Rentgen? She regretted that she had invited the Parisian critic to her box. It happened at a soirée, where he showed his savage profile among admiring musical lambs. But he was never punctual at musical affairs. This consoled Alixe.
Such an insane chase after a rabbit! Yes, she said the word to herself and found her lips carved into a hard smile, which she saw reflected as in a trick mirror upon the face of Elvard Rentgen. He understood. Of little avail Sordello's frantic impotencies.
"There, Elvard Rentgen! What did you tell me? I dare you to say that this music is not marvellous, not original!" Her victorious gaze, in which floated indomitable faith, challenged him, as she drew the head of her husband to her protecting bosom. The warring of exasperated eyes endured a moment; to Alixe it seemed eternity.
They are as bodiless souls. When they descend into a human being they possess his moods, in very existence " "And Richard!" she muttered. His words swayed her like strange music; the country through which they were passing was a blank; she could see but two luminous points the nocturnal eyes of Elvard Rentgen, as he spun his cobwebs in the moonshine.
Alixe recalled the interminable arguments, the snatches of poetry, the hasty rushes to the keyboard; a composer was in travail. At the end of a year, Rentgen professed his satisfaction; Van Kuyp stood on the highroad to fame. Of that there could be no doubt; Elvard Rentgen would say so in print. Alixe had been reassured
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