She felt her skills make a belated return. 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. They left the castle that day for another, packing with them the leftovers of the troupe that followed them from place to place, never asking about the occasional disappearance of one of its unlucky members. All at once he saw a way out of the threatening doldrums.
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