Translation: “I sat at the table of the gods, the same as Tantalus, with Pleasure to my right and Love to my left. The feast was bounteous in food and wine and beauty. In the heavens, I was above Asia, Europe, and Africa. Where was Paris? What more could I want? However, I longed for immortality, the victory of paradise. Love conquers all; I conquer love, and you are all.”

V. Osculum Triumphale

Impelled by a wistful sense of nostalgia, Enguerrand had earlier decided to spend the evening at the Opéra Comique, but Raoul was more than content to return to the private box in the grand tier of the Garnier, and so the count left their hotel for the Boulevard des Italiens with the palominos while the viscount rode with the coursers to the Place de l'Opéra. When the younger d'Argentile drew rein upon his arrival at the Neoclassical façade, he observed ahead of his carriage a grand coach which unsteadily stood beyond the portico, tottering and quaking as one of the four black horses that pulled the vehicle reared and neighed sonorously into the night. The liveried coachman, wary of the violent kicking of the animals' front legs, cautiously, though imperatively, tugged at the horse's reins, attempting to calm it and prevent the other equines from becoming excited, but the black stallion continued snorting and rearing despite the coachman's best efforts. Raoul, who by this time had stepped from his conveyance, carefully watched the scene from a distance and abruptly commanded his own driver to depart.

It was not until he heard a woman scream that he neared the agitated horse and frazzled driver to offer his assistance by slowly walking around to the other side of the coach and saying, "This way, Monsieur! Try to turn his head this way." With a forceful jerk, the coachman was successful in directing the stallions' eyes to fall to the darkened street away from the pavement illuminated by the lamppost's light, and the horse gradually ceased its rearing.

"Ah, poor Bucéphalus," Raoul said, gently patting the velvety nose of the stallion. "It's all right, garçon. Your shadow will no longer frighten you now." He stroked the horse's arched neck soothingly.

"Was that it?" the coachman asked, still reeling from the episode.

"Oui, Monsieur. These Arabic stallions are very intelligent but quite imaginative. They may see Mephistopheles in Metatron," Raoul answered, planting a soft kiss on the muzzle. "But if you will excuse me, I suspect the overture has already half ended, and I must be in my box before the first act begins otherwise the ushers will not hesitate to refuse me my seat until intermission."

"Of course," the coachman obliged, grasping the reins once more.

"Merci, Monsieur!" the passenger of the conveyance cried out. Raoul smiled to himself when he recognized her voice as Mademoiselle Nereilles' while he entered the opera house's vestibule.

The smile remained on his lips during the first act of Don Giovanni before melting into a soft smirk at the start of intermission, at which time he removed his ivory lorgnette from his eyes and set it atop his velvet program. The curtain of the stage was closed, and he noticed some of the galleries were emptied of their occupants, some of whom visited adjacent balconies and others went to the nearby confectioner's for a bag of sweets. Surreptitiously, Raoul emerged from his own box and strode away to the Foyer de la Chanson from where he retraced the path that he had walked blindfolded last night with Vevey, Froufrou, and Manon. If memory had served him well, then the door--whose beige paneling looked familiar enough--at which he stood led into Mademoiselle Nereilles' dressing room.

With a silent intake of breath, he quietly opened the door and reveled in the cool air scented with roses and Champagne that greeted him. The prima donna was within, her back to him as she rummaged in the closet for something. Still smirking, he crept inside and reached up his hands to the laces that secured the soprano's masquerade costume and corset to her body. With dexterous fingers, he began untying the series of intricate knots between her shoulder blades until Thétis, feeling the fabric slip from about her, shrieked in surprise, stiffened her spine, and whipped around to confront the playful Raoul, her hands clutching the silken kirtle to her chest and eyes blazing.

"You! It's you! What's the meaning of this, Monsieur?" she hissed so as not to attract attention to her chamber from anyone in the hallway.

Raoul, the archaic smile still marking his mien, raised his eyebrows mockingly. "Why, chérie, I am deeply indebted to you."

"For what?" she "asked, suspicious, while slowly regaining her composure.

"For the leisure to linger on ambrosia," he replied. Seeing Thétis' questioning look, he continued, "I fed on the hope of hearing you sing, but just now, I have feasted on the splendid fulfillment of an aria, and I assure you, it was the finest repast. I thank you."

"Ah, then I'm pleased you dined so well," she countered sarcastically.

"Oh, the bill of fare has suited me very well indeed, but I feel there is still something missing."

"The final course," Thétis offered, "or the nectar. Come, Monsieur, en garde for your sabrage."

Raoul laughed then, his gray eyes alight. "Ad mensam sedi idem ac Tantalus deorum, Voluptas dextera et Venus sinistra. Cena plena cibi atque vini, fuit pluchritudinis. Supra fui Asiam et Europam et Africam in caelo. Quis Paris erat? Quid plus volo? Tamen desideravi immoralitatem viction paradisii. Amor vincit omnium sed vinco amorem atque omnes es."

"What did you say, Monsieur?" the singer inquired, puzzled at the string of Latin the viscount had so glibly pronounced.

"Now that I am here," Raoul responded, "how should I treat you?"

"Like a prima donna of course," she answered, tossing her head back to look up at him. "I thought that would be obvious."

"Ah," Raoul realized, folding his hands before him. He tilted his head meditatively to the side. "Like a prima donna."

"A diva," she supplied.

"Oui, oui," he said. "Most definitely, like a grande dame de l'opéra."

Thétis nodded, half irritated, half intrigued. She was not prepared when the viscount stepped forward, caught her face in his gloved hands which were redolent of citron and vanilla, and kissed her slightly parted lips. Returning the caress, she placed her own hands on his chest and was able to feel both the heat from his body and the coolness of the white satin shirt he wore underneath his coat. He broke away first, and she saw in her vanity mirror his mouth curve into a mischievous grin.

"I hope," Raoul said, "that was in more accord to Mademoiselle la Prima Donna's wishes."

"I suppose it was," Thétis replied. "But why do you smile so?"

"You do not know?" he questioned. She shook her head in the negative, and he chuckled despite himself. "Why, I am now le Sire de Tout l'Opéra."

"You're nothing but a silly little boy, mon prince Bohémien," she said, echoing the Count d'Argentile's sentiments from a few days past.

"Perhaps, chérie" he answered resignedly. Then they each heard the four note chime of the glockenspiel signal the end of intermission, and the viscount, his visage now marked by an ironic little simper, walked to the door. Before leaving, however, he turned his head back to Thétis and qualified, "Perhaps not."

As he shut the beige door behind him, the diva turned to the vanity and shrugged. It was just a legend after all. Her reflection in the mirror was only a mirage but a mirage who was obliged to return to the empire of the opera stage because an anonimous emperor, with scented gloves and the wealth of hope, had persuaded the stars to align and entered the mystery of a prima donna's sanctum during intermezzo.

L'Extrémité