“And is there more to hope for than the pity that says ‘poor child’ when it looks at me?”
Breathlessly Antoine asked the question, and as breathlessly seemed to hang on Elsie’s words: “Men crippled like you, Antoine, have made the world pause to wonder at their powers, and hail in reverent acclaim the genius that is immeasurably above mere physical perfection.”
“But I haven’t any genius,” said Antoine with a disappointed sigh. “I have only one intense longing.”
“For what? Tell me.”
“You will laugh at me.”
“Not for the world.”
“Well, then,” and Antoine’s pale face flushed with the energy of desire, “for music. To pour out my soul in wordless utterances like the birds; to rise, to float on waves of song, away above everybody.”
The little thin hands were clasped together in an ecstasy of feeling, and the bent body was restlessly swaying back and forth among the cushions.
“Have you ever tried?” asked Elsie simply.
“No; ma mère doesn’t even know it. She says I whistle like a bird, and that is all she knows. She is too poor to buy me anything to make music with.”