“I hope you will be civil to Ehrenstein to-morrow. Play him the ‘Mélodiés Hongroises.’ His mother was a Hungarian, and he adored her. The ‘Mélodiés’ will send him into Paradise.”
“I am not conscious of a desire to procure him that happiness. What the devil do I care about his mother or himself? Either the fellow knows music or he doesn’t.”
Agiropoulos was speeding on his way to Athens while Rudolph was sitting in the Natzelhuber’s undecorated parlor, listening to the magic “Mélodiés Hongroises,” wherein enchanting dance and melody spring exultingly out of subtle waves of variation, their impetuous joy broken suddenly by sharp notes of pathos and vague yearning. Music so gloriously rendered thrilled him into instantaneous love, and his soul was lost irretrievably in exquisite sound.
CHAPTER VIII. THE RESULT OF THE BARON’S ADVICE.
It was the eve of Madame Jarovisky’s ball, and nearly a week had elapsed since Rudolph Ehrenstein had permitted himself the painful pleasure of a visit to Mademoiselle Natzelhuber. He was young and impressionable enough for a week to work a rapid change in him under novel circumstances. He mixed freely in the distinguished diplomatic circles of Athens, had been with the Mowbray Thomases to Tatoi, played cricket with Vincent, whose English-French was a source of piquant amusement to him, his own being irreproachable, played tennis and drank tea with the rowdy American girls his aunt disapproved of, and was accompanied by Miss Eméraude Veritassi when he charmed a small audience with Raff’s Cavatina. The Baron von Hohenfels expressed himself delighted with his nephew’s success, praised his air of distinction and reserve, wished him a little less shy, however, and implored him to cultivate the virtues of tobacco.
“It gives a man a certain tone to be able to appreciate a good cigar,” he explained, airily. “You are improving undoubtedly. Your behaviour with Mademoiselle Veritassi last night was quite pretty and gallant. I may mention, Rudolph, that neither your aunt nor I have any objection to Eméraude Veritassi. Her style is good, and her French—well, should you think of diplomacy by and bye, you would have no reason to be ashamed of it. She is about the only Greek girl I know who looks as if she had been brought up in Paris. Yes, by all means cultivate her, if you are disposed that way, though perhaps it would be wiser to choose your wife at home.”
Rudolph blushed and smiled pleasantly.
“Is it not rather premature to talk of marriage for me, uncle?” he asked, quizzically.