Great excitement reigned in Rue Ravestein No. 10. An odor of freshly
baked tea cakes pervaded the stairs and halls. Annette with constantly
changing color settled the furniture, now in this place, now in that,
trying to hide its deficiencies, her beautiful eyes rested on the green
carpet, and she murmured faint-heartedly--"how will it look to him
here?" Gesa only smiled, kissed her on the forehead, gave her a
confident little pat on the cheek, and said, "He comes to make your
acquaintance, my treasure, not to criticize our dwelling."
Even more excited than his daughter was the old Delileo. He had exhumed
from a worm-eaten chest an ancient frock with a mighty collar in the
ponderous taste of the citizen-king, and attired in this garment, and
smelling strongly of camphor, he wandered restlessly from one little
chamber to another, dusting off a picture frame with his pocket
handkerchief, casting a half-shamed glance into the dull mirror, and
pulling with trembling fingers at his imposing silk neck kerchief,
which with his beautifully embroidered but rather yellow cambric shirt,
had been young under the umbrella-sceptre of Louis Philippe.
Gesa joked at the agitation of his little family, but nevertheless felt
it to be perfectly justifiable, in anticipation of the great event.
At eight o'clock every heart beat; five minutes after eight Delileo
remarked "perhaps he won't come"; at a quarter past Annette turned a
surprised look on her lover, and said, "but he promised you positively,
Gesa!" at half past eight a stir was heard on the floor below. "It is
an excuse from de Sterny," said Delileo, going to meet disappointment,
as was his custom.
"Shall I find Monsieur Delileo here?" a very cultivated voice was heard
asking, on the stairs. Gesa rushed out. The old journalist passed a
thumb and fore finger over his cheeks--to give himself an unembarrassed
air, Annette disappeared.
A few seconds later the door opened, and into the shabby green salon
there came an aristocratic-looking blonde man, who was a little
embarrassed by the fact that he had not been able to lay aside his fur
coat in the hall. This did not last a moment, however. Scarcely had
Gesa relieved him of the heavy garment than he held out his hand
cordially to the master of the house, whom Gesa formally presented, and
said "we are old acquaintances!" and when the "droewige Herr" would
have set aside this compliment with a deprecating wave of the hand, de
Sterny continued, "You perhaps may not remember the love-sick dreamer
whom you met in old times at the Countess d'Agoult's. But I have not
forgotten your sympathizing kindness. It did me good. We had then, as I
believe, the same trouble--only"--with a glance at the Gualtieri's
picture which his quick searching eye had already discovered--"later
you were happier than I!"
Then verily tears filled the eyes of the "droewigen Herrn," and he
pressed the virtuoso's hand.
"Well?" de Sterny glanced merrily at Gesa, "I was promised something
more than a meeting with old friends,--a new acquaintance?"
Gesa looked around. "Oh, the little goose, she has hidden." He hurried
into the next room--they heard his tender reassuring "_vollons
fillette_, don't be a child!"
On Gesa's arm, timid, abashed, pale from excitement, deep feverish red
on her lips, she came toward the virtuoso, and laid her little ice-cold
fingers in his offered hand.
As if bewitched he stared at the young girl, then collecting himself,
he kissed her soft child-hand, chivalrously and said, "You must pardon
me this, Fraeulein, I am a very old friend of your betrothed, and was
once an obscure, but intense admirer of your mother." Then turning to
Delileo, he added "the resemblance is perfectly startling--it is a
resurrection!"
No one could be more amiable than de Sterny was in the Rue Ravestein,
and moreover his amiability cost him not the slightest effort. Like
other grand gentlemen he took pleasure in making small excursions into
spheres where it would have been frightful for him if he had been
obliged to live.
Toward old Delileo he adopted a tone of modest deference, toward Gesa,
as always heretofore, one of half boon-companion, half paternal banter.
He drank two cups of tea, boasted of his hunger, and praised the dainty
tea cakes.
Delileo poured out reminiscences which dated as far back as his frock,
and were just as much in accordance with modern taste. Silent and pale
the Gualtieri's daughter sat before the guest. She did not raise her
eyes to him once, yet no detail of his appearance escaped her. As he
expected that evening to return from the Rue Ravestein into the world,
he wore evening dress which became him well. His white cravat, his open
waistcoat and carefully arranged hair, were for her a revelation.
He addressed her repeatedly, but she only answered in monosyllables.
"Is not mademoiselle musical?" he asked, turning from these laborious
attempts at conversation to Delileo.
"Yes, she sings a little!"
"Has her voice any resemblance to--to"--de Sterny stopped short.
"Say, will you sing something for us, Bijou?" whispered Gesa to the
girl, "we will not urge you, but if...."
"You would give me such great pleasure!" said de Sterny.
Making no answer, with a heavy movement, as if walking in sleep, the
young girl rose, went to the spinet, and laid a sheet of music on the
desk. It was the fine old romance of Martini--"plaisir d'Amour." The
virtuoso instantly offered to accompany her. She nodded shyly. Softly
and sadly through the shabby green chamber sounded the immortal love
song, a song which the united efforts of all the female pupils in the
Conservatories of Europe have not succeeded in killing.
Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un instant,
Chagrin d'amour dure tonte la vie!--
She held her hands, as she had been taught, lightly laid in one
another, but the delicate head, contrary to regulation, was inclined
toward the right shoulder--as if it had suddenly grown heavy. Her voice
sounded hollow and mournful; it trembled as if with suppressed sobs.
"She is afraid of you," said Gesa, who had come up to her side, "I
don't know in the least what ails her. Usually she does not want
courage. _Pauvre petite chat_"--and he stroked her hair gently.
The virtuoso's brow fell, as if it hurt him to witness these innocent
caresses. He turned to Delileo.
"It is the same voice, absolutely the same voice! A wonderful likeness!
Now, mademoiselle, you will grant me just one more trifle, will you
not?"
Gesa brought out from a pile of music a written sheet, and laid it on
the rack. "Just do this, Annette," he urged, taking up his violin. "The
song is for voice and violin," he said--"Please give me an A, de
Sterny." De Sterny struck the note.
It was the "Nessun maggior dolore" from his own music to Dante's
Inferno, which Gesa had laid on the music desk. A strange composition,
in which the human voice swelled from soft half audible revery to
bitter despairing utterance of pain, while the violin gave out a melody
of penetrating sweetness, like the torturing memory of long vanished
joy. Gesa's cheeks were burning as he finished the performance of this
his favorite composition. De Sterny let his hands glide from the
keyboard, and fixed the violinist with a sharp look, "That is yours?"
he asked.
Gesa nodded.
"Then let yourself be embraced on the spot. It is simply superb!"
It was toward eleven o'clock before de Sterny remembered that duty
called him back into "the world." Gesa had shown him several more of
his own compositions, and in everything the virtuoso had taken the
liveliest interest.
Gesa accompanied his friend from the Rue Ravestein into the region of
civilization. De Sterny was absent and silent. "Well, what do you say?"
urged his disciple, pressingly.
"You will have very great success."
"In what--in my marriage?" laughed Gesa.
"Ah your marriage!" The virtuoso started--"yes, your marriage.
Well--she is the most enchanting creature I have met since her mother.
What a voice--she could become a Malibran."
"And?"--
They were standing now at the Place Royale. "_Dieu merci_--there
comes a carriage--I despaired of finding one," cried de Sterny.
"Adieu,--bring me the whole of your 'Inferno' to-morrow,--auf
Wiedersehen!"
With this he sprang into the fiacre which had stopped at a sign from
him, and rolled away.
In the Rue Ravestein that evening there was a great deal to talk about.
Old Delileo, whose cheeks glowed as if he had been drinking champagne,
was very loquacious. Gesa confided to Annette word for word, de
Sterny's flattering judgment upon her, but she showed herself nervous
and irritable like a child too early waked from sleep. She complained
that she had sung badly. She who had always so kindly indulged the
garrulity of her poor old father, scarcely listened to him, even made
impatient little grimaces, and said his way of walking up and down put
her beside herself. When the old man sat down with a hurt air, then she
broke into tears and begged his forgiveness.
Gesa drew her onto his knees, dried her tears, and quieted her with
playful caresses. "She lives too isolated; the least thing excites her,
father?" said he, stroking her cheek. "We must find some amusement for
her."
The "droewige Herr," looked down gloomily.
About three o'clock de Sterny mounted the stairs of his hotel. He had
been honored and flattered exactly as much as ever, but he felt out of
spirits.
"Every street urchin knows my name now, and the crossing sweepers show
each other the celebrated de Sterny when I pass. But when I die, what
will remain of me! Nothing but a few wretched piano pieces, which they
will laugh at after my death."
The songs of the violinist rang in his ears. He shivered. He thought of
the beautiful girl, and passed his hand across his forehead.
"Hm!--the danger of a quiet family life does not threaten him from that
quarter. She sleeps as yet; but she has inherited all the
passionateness of her mother and all the nervousness of her father. How
beautiful she is! How beautiful!"