"But it is me, signora, who is in the debt of you," said Molatti, in her soft, musical, broken English. "I hava coma to you to thanka you and to ask a leetle favor. Signor Remsen! oh, eet was so wonderful--so vera wonderful! I hava waited all my leetle life for eet."
I stared at the girl in astonishment. Her enthusiasm, her gestures, the brilliant glow in her dark eyes offended me. And "eet!" What was "eet," for which she had waited all her life?
"Yes?" I remarked, interrogatively. Her fervor was not cooled by the iced water of my question mark.
"Leesten to me, signora. I hava worsheeped Chopin since I was a leetle girl. I have heard alla the great interpretaires of the maestro. But I have nevaire heard Chopin. In my dreams--si, signora, but nevaire in my hours that are awake. But I cama here! Signor Remsen--he playa Chopin! Eet was no dream. Eet was the soul of the maestro speaking to the soul of me. Eet was wonderful--so vera wonderful!"
Conflicting emotions warred within me. I hardly dared speak lest I should either laugh or cry hysterically. With lips compressed I sat motionless, staring at the girl, into whose eloquent eyes there had come a pleading look that suggested tears.
"Signor Remsen," she murmured, presently, like a devotee who breathes the name of an idol--"do you thinka, signora, that he would let me hear him play again? Peety me, signora! I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I crave only the music of the maestro--music that I hava heard only once in my leetle life. Signor Remsen! Eef he would permeet me--justa once--to accompany him on my leetle violin--oh, signora, I coulda then die happy. I should hava leeved just a leetle while, and then I would not care. But now, I am so unhappy--so vera miserable!"
I was too nervous to stand this kind of thing any longer. I rose, and Molatti faced me, erect at once.
"You pay my husband's talent a great compliment, signorina," I said, coldly; "but I cannot take it on myself to answer you in his name. However, I shall present your request to him and let you know at once what he says." A diabolical impulse came over me, and I added: "Of course, Mr. Remsen would not wish you to starve, signorina, nor to die a horrible death from insomnia."
The girl spiked my guns--if that be the right expression--by a merry, musical laugh.
"You are so vera kind!" she cried. "I kissa your lovely hand."