The old lady dozed, her two withered hands lying on the arms of the chair. There wasn’t a sign of life in the room. Claudine got up and crossed the room to an immense walnut secretary and tried to read the titles of the books on the shelves with eyes dimmed by absurd tears. Hopeless volumes of sermons, forgotten and tedious poems. But she kept on looking at them, with a false interest, only that she might keep her face turned away.
Gilbert was touched by her lost young figure in that silent room.
“After all, it’s pretty dull for her here,” he thought, and he wanted very much to make her happy, but didn’t know how. He had expected that somehow she would light up, transform, enliven this household; he hadn’t quite realized that he would be literally expected to do what all young lovers so gallantly promise—to make her happy. He couldn’t help thinking of Mrs. Mason’s words.
He wanted to get up and put his arm about her, but he was afraid of his mother’s ridicule. And blind instinct suggested to him the one thing that could solace her pain, that at once dried her tears and made eager her leaden heart.
“Play something for us, won’t you, Claudine?”
“Do you really want me to?” she cried.
He got up and went into the front parlour, where he turned up the gas and opened the piano. Then he seated himself near by, with a pleased smile.
“Now!” said he.
She ran her strong little fingers over the keyboard in ecstasy. The piano was out of tune and very stiff, but it was music anyway. She hesitated a moment; she considered her audience, and fate inspired her to play Traumerei. This was one of the few pieces they both knew and, like very many others, they were delighted to hear what they knew.
“Brava!” said the old lady.