“It concerns everyone.... And you have been so good lately.”
“Ah! I have been good lately. You have heard that. And did you expect me to continue to be good when you returned to Paris and passed all your days in public with that antique and grotesque Monsieur Gilman? All the world sees you. I myself have seen you. It is horrible.”
She controlled herself. And the fact that she was intensely flattered helped her to do so.
“Now Musa,” she said, firmly and kindly, as on previous occasions she had spoken to him. “Do be reasonable. I refuse to be angry, and it is impossible for you to insult me, however much you try. But do be reasonable. Do think of the future. We are all wishing for your success. We shall all be there. And now you say you aren’t going to play. It is really too much.”
“You have perhaps bought tickets,” said Musa, and a flush gradually spread over his cheeks. “You have perhaps bought tickets, and you are afraid lest you have been robbed. Tranquillise yourself, Madame. If you have the least fear, I will instruct my agent to reimburse you. And why should I not play? Naturally I shall play. Accept my word, if you can.” He spoke with an icy and convincing decision.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” Audrey murmured.
“What right have you to be glad, Madame? If you are glad it is your own affair. Have I troubled you since we last met? I need the sympathy of nobody. I am assured of a large audience. My impresario is excessively optimistic. And if this is so, I owe it to none but myself. You speak of insults. Permit me to say that I regard your patronage as an insult. I have done nothing, I imagine, to deserve it. I crack my head to divine what I have done to deserve it. You hear some silly talk about a rehearsal and you precipitate yourself chez moi—”
Without a word Audrey rose and departed. He followed her to the door and held it open.
“Bon jour, Madame.”
She descended the stairs. Perhaps it was his sudden illogical change of tone; perhaps it was the memory of his phrase, “assured of a large audience,” coupled with a picture of the sinister Mr. Cowl unsuccessfully trying to give away tickets—but whatever was the origin of the sob, she did give a sob. As she walked downcast through the courtyard she heard clearly the sounds of Musa’s violin, played with savage vigour.