“Pray smoke, my friend,” said she; “you know I like it when we are alone here.”
He obeyed, and the music began. It was the music of the distant past, graceful and light, one of those compositions that seem to have inspired the artist on a soft moonlight evening in springtime.
“Who is the composer of that?” asked Bertin.
“Schumann,” the Countess replied. “It is little known and charming.”
A desire to look at Annette grew stronger within him, but he did not dare. He would have to make only a slight movement, merely a turn of the neck, for he could see out of the corner of his eye the two candles lighting the score; but he guessed so well, read so clearly, the watchful gaze of the Countess that he remained motionless, his eyes looking straight before him, interested apparently in the gray thread of smoke from his cigarette.
“Was that all you had to say to me?” Madame de Guilleroy murmured to him.
He smiled.
“Don't be vexed with me. You know that music hypnotizes me; it drinks my thoughts. I will talk soon.”
“I must tell you,” said the Countess, “that I had studied something for you before mamma's death. I never had you hear it, but I will play it for you immediately, as soon as the little one has finished; you shall see how odd it is.”
She had real talent, and a subtle comprehension of the emotion that flows through sounds. It was indeed one of her surest powers over the painter's sensibility.