These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. I cannot protect you. 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. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators.
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