He forgot her after five minutes.
Practising, in the feeble lamplight of the attic, she used to wait,
through the long evenings, for the postman and news that never came.
"For me?" she would call over the banisters. "Nothing, mademoiselle!"
Then, back to the hired Pleyel, that barely left space for her to wash.
Inexorable technique, cascades of brilliance, while her heart was
breaking.
After she shut the piano, the dim light looked dimmer. The narrow
street was silent. Only, in the distance sometimes, was the jog-trot of
a cab-horse and the minor jangle of its bell.
Her siege of Paris made no progress.
Companionship came to her when ten months had gone. A young widow
drifted to the house, and now and then, on the stairs, they met. One
day they found themselves seated at the same table, in a little
crémerie close by, and over their oeufs-sur-le-plat they talked. As
they walked home together, the widow said:
"I always leave my door open to hear you play."