Madame de Bergenheim waited the conclusion of this dangerous run, not thinking to strike the final chord; the only sound heard was the rustling of the dilettante’s beard, as his chin sought his voice in vain in the depths of his satin cravat, accompanied by applause from a benevolent old lady who had judged of the merit of the execution by the desperate contortions of the singer.
“D—n that charlotte-russe!” growled the artist, whose face was as red as a lobster.
The rest of the duet was sung without any new incident, and gave general satisfaction.
“Madame, your piano is half a tone too low,” said the basso, with a reproachful accent.
“That is true,” replied Clemence, who could not restrain a smile; “I have so little voice that I am obliged to have my piano tuned to suit it. You can well afford to pardon me for my selfishness, for you sang like an angel.”
Marillac bowed, partly consoled by this compliment, but thinking to himself that a hostess’s first duty was to have her piano in tune, and not to expose a bass singer to the danger of imperilling his low “E” before an audience of forty.
“Madame, can I be of any more service to you?” asked Gerfaut, as he leaned toward Madame de Bergenheim, with one of his coldest smiles.
“I do not wish to impose further upon your kindness, Monsieur,” said she, in a voice which showed her secret displeasure.
The poet bowed and walked away.
Then Clemence, upon general request, sang a romance with more taste than brilliancy, and more method than expression. It seemed as if Octave’s icy manner had reacted upon her, in spite of the efforts she had made at first to maintain a cheerful air. A singular oppression overcame her; once or twice she feared her voice would fail her entirely. When she finished, the compliments and applause with which she was overwhelmed seemed so insupportable to her that it was with difficulty she could restrain herself from leaving the room. While exasperated by her weakness, she could not help casting a glance in Octave’s direction. She could not catch his eye, however, as he was busy talking with Aline. She felt so lonely and deserted at this moment, and longed so for this glance which she could not obtain, that tears of vexation filled her eyes.