“Your aunt, as you call that shriveled-up shrew, 416 consented at once,” answered Straws. “Her parental heart was filled with thanksgiving at the prospect of one less mouth to fill. Go and say good-by, however, to the old harridan; I think she has a few conventional tears to shed. But do not let her prolong her grief inordinately, and meet me at the front door.”
A few moments later, Straws and the child, hand-in-hand, started on their way to the Castiglione temple of learning and culture. If Celestina appeared thoughtful, even sad, the poet was never so merry, and sought to entertain the abstracted girl with sparkling chit-chat about the people they met in the crowded streets. A striking little man was a composer of ability, whose operas, “Cosimo,” “Les Pontons de Cadiz,” and other works had been produced at the Opéra Comique in Paris. He was now director of the French opera in New Orleans and had brought out the charming Mademoiselle Capriccioso and the sublime Signor Staccato. The lady by his side, a dark brunette with features that were still beautiful, was the nimble-footed Madame Feu-de-joie, whose shapely limbs and graceful motions had delighted two generations and were like to appeal to a third. Men who at twenty had thrown Feu-de-joie posies, now bald but young as ever, tossed her roses.
“I don’t like that lady,” said Celestina, emphatically, when the dancer had passed on, after petting her and kissing her on the cheek.
“Now, it’s curious,” commented the bard, “but your sex never did.”
“Do men like her?” asked the child, with premature penetration.
“They did; they do; they will!” answered Straws, epigrammatically.
“Do you like her?”
“Oh, that’s different! Poets, you know, are the exception to any rule.”
“Why?”