"Perhaps it is the young lady," suggested Trafford. "I noticed she fixed her beady black eyes on you during the last verse."
"I think not," said Saunders drily. "The young lady I was referring to was a somewhat more exalted personage than Fräulein Schmitt."
The fascinating songstress re-appeared for her encore, and this time the orchestra struck up a martial air with a good deal of rolling drums in it.
"My 'Gesang,'" whispered Trafford excitedly.
"The 'Rothlied,'" said Saunders.
Again the Fräulein sang, and now the burthen of her song was of battlefields and war's alarms. The tune was vastly inspiriting, and the audience knew it well, taking up the chorus with infectious enthusiasm.
"It's great!" muttered Trafford, twirling excitedly at his moustaches. "By the living Jingo, it's great!"
And of a truth the air was an intoxicating one. There was gunpowder in it, musketry and cold steel, reckless charges and stern movements of advance. One caught the thunder of hoofs and the blare of bugles. Its infection became imperious, maddening even,—for the audience forgot their pipes and their tigerbräu, and beat time to the insistent rhythm, till the chorus gave them a chance of imparting their enthusiasm to the roaring refrain. The girl herself seemed the embodiment of martial ardour. She trod the stage like a little war-horse, her eye sought the gallery and struck fire from the beer-loving bourgeoisie. For a second her gaze seemed to fall upon Saunders mockingly, and with an air of challenge. Then she glanced round the crowded house, held it spellbound, lifted it up, carried it to high regions of carnage, self-sacrifice, and glory. The audience roared, clapped, screamed with exuberant acclaim. Their state was frénétique—no other word, French, English, or German, well describes it.
"By George, she's a witch!" said Trafford. "She's as dangerous as a time fuse. I'll be hanged if I don't want to fight someone!"
The encore verse was more pointed, more sinister, less general in its application. It spoke of wrongs to be righted, tyranny to be overcome, freedom to be gained. It hinted of an uplifting of the proletariat, of armed citizens and frenzied women, of tumult in square and street; it breathed of barricades and civic strife, the vast upheaval of a discontented people determined to assert their rights. Men looked at each other and stirred uneasily in their seats, and then glanced round in apprehension,—as if expecting the entrance of the police. The song was a veritable "Marseillaise," a trumpet call to revolution, a match in a barrel of gunpowder; and with the final chorus and the stirring swing of the refrain, all remnants of prudence and restraint were cast to the winds. The house rose en masse; men mounted their seats and waved sticks and umbrellas aloft; a party of young officers drew their swords and brandished them with wild insurgent cries. Forbidden names were spoken, cheers were raised for popular outlaws and suspects, groans for unpopular bureaucrats and the King's favourites. It was an intoxicating moment,—whatever one's sympathies might be,—and it was obvious enough that the temper of the people was frankly revolutionary, and that the authorities would be quite justified,—from their point of view,—in arresting the audience and the management en bloc.