“I am waiting till we are at home to know whether you love me.”
“You need not wait till then,” she said, throwing her arms round his neck. “There!” she said, as she embraced him, passionately to all appearance, and plied him with the coaxing caresses that are part of the business of such a life as hers, like stage action for an actress.
“Where is the music?” asked Castanier.
“What next? Only think of your hearing music now!”
“Heavenly music!” he went on. “The sounds seem to come from above.”
“What? You have always refused to give me a box at the Italiens because you could not abide music, and are you turning music-mad at this time of day? Mad—that you are! The music is inside your own noddle, old addle-pate!” she went on, as she took his head in her hands and rocked it to and fro on her shoulder. “Tell me now, old man; isn’t it the creaking of the wheels that sings in your ears?”
“Just listen, Naqui! If the angels make music for God Almighty, it must be such music as this that I am drinking in at every pore, rather than hearing. I do no know how to tell you about it; it is as sweet as honey-water!”
“Why, of course, they have music in heaven, for the angels in all the pictures have harps in their hands. He is mad, upon my word!” she said to herself, as she saw Castanier’s attitude; he looked like an opium-eater in a blissful trance.
They reached the house. Castanier, absorbed by the thought of all that he had just heard and seen, knew not whether to believe it or not; he was like a drunken man, and utterly unable to think connectedly. He came to himself in Aquilina’s room, whither he had been supported by the united efforts of his mistress, the porter, and Jenny; for he had fainted as he stepped from the carriage.
“He will be here directly! Oh, my friends, my friends,” he cried, and he flung himself despairingly into the depths of a low chair beside the fire.