Then followed "The Marseillaise." That was easier. The air had a swing to it, and she managed both the drum and the cymbals. But it was warm work and she stopped for a while, rosy and breathless.
"What do you think?"
"Oh, magnificent. Yvonne Deschamps—Femme Orchestre, Messieurs et Dames, queen of the lyrical world, the musical marvel of the century, artist by appointment to the President of the Réplublique Française and all the crowned heads of Europe. How will that do?"
"Beautifully. And you—what will you do?"
"I— Oh, I will pass the hat."
She laughed. "So! You intend to live in luxury at my expense. No, thank you, Monsieur Philidor. I'm doing my share. You shall do yours. I'll trouble you to keep your word. You shall paint portraits at two francs a head."
"I didn't really intend—"
"You shall keep your promise," she insisted.
"But, Hermia, I—"
"There are no 'buts'!" she broke in. "A moment ago you indulged in some fine phrases at the expense of my sincerity. Now look to yours. We'll have an honest partnership—an equal partnership, or we'll have no partnership."