“I remember you, Bella, so well—sitting at the piano, with a great black braid over your shoulder, playing that ‘Marche Aux Flambeaux,’ and poor father keeping time with his pipe. And that duet, Bella! You and I—the Grande Fantasia for Les Huguenots—” She giggled through her tears, and that giggle was more than Mrs. Russell could bear. It made the plaid dress and the duet and a hundred heartbreaking, dusty, forgotten things rise up before her.
“Louie!” she said. “I’m ashamed of you! When two sisters haven’t met for—”
“For two lifetimes!” said the incorrigible Louie. “I don’t care, Bella! The old things are the best.”
“What,” interrupted Mrs. Russell, sternly, “have you been doing all these years, Louie? Why didn’t you ever write to me?”
“I never had time, Bella. I’ve been too busy, failing. I’ve failed at everything, Bella, everything! I gave my recital—and you must have read how quickly and thoroughly I failed there. Then I tried giving music lessons, but I was always late, or I forgot to come at all, or I’d feel not in the mood for teaching. Then I studied filing and indexing, and oh, Bella, you should have seen the awful things I did! You know I never was exactly methodical! Then I learned typing. I was a little frightened then, Bella. I really tried, at that. But, you see, I wasn’t young any more then, and not good at the work. That failed, too. Then I tried to peddle things—scented soap, from door to door.”
“Louie! I—I’m very sorry, my dear!”
“Well, you needn’t be!” said her sister, drying her eyes. “It’s been very wonderful—sometimes, Bella. I’ve been happy most of the time—because, you see, I never minded failing.”
“Are you—” Mrs. Russell began, with no little embarrassment. “Are you—in difficulties now, Louie?”
“I haven’t a penny in the world, Bella. You remember that fable of La Fontaine’s we used to recite in school? ‘La Cigale et La Fourmis’? (The Grasshopper and the Ant.) I’m Miss Cigale, Bella, and you’re Mrs. Fourmis. I’m the poor, silly grasshopper who danced the summer away—and here I am, Bella. It’s winter—for me—and I want to rest, here with you, until the summer comes back.”
“Oh, don’t be so—‘highfalutin’’!” cried Mrs. Russell, stung by emotion into using a long-forgotten word. “Try to talk sensibly, Louie.”