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"La petite Salle," as the Prince had called it—in which supper had been laid for Tina and the Maestro—was situated at the end of a splendid "apartement," which contained the salon and the other reception-rooms of the Hôtel. It communicated with other rooms and private staircases, and was therefore peculiarly suitable for purposes of retirement. It was decorated, with the picturesque daintiness of the French Court, in panels painted in imitation of Watteau, festooned with silk, embroidered with flowers. One or two cabinets supporting plate, and chairs richly embroidered in vari-coloured silk, completed the furniture. The supper was served on a small round table, with a costly service of china and Venetian glass.
Tina had accepted the invitation with pleasure. She had feared that this evening, when the work of another was being performed at the Imperial Theatre, to the exclusion of his great masterpiece, would have been a time of great depression with the Maestro, and she resolved to endeavour to cheer him. She had dressed herself with the greatest care, and without thought of cost. She had never looked so charming—every day seemed to mature her beauty. The supper was all that could have been expected or wished; nevertheless the Maestro was distrait and even sulky. Tina lavished her bewitching wiles and enchantments upon him in vain.
After the first course or two, which, it must be admitted, were served by the attendants in a somewhat perfunctory manner, the Maestro dismissed the servants, saying that the Signorina and he would prefer waiting upon themselves: dumb waiters, containing wines and other accessories, were placed by the table's side, and the servants left the room.
Still the Maestro seemed ill at ease. Tina, finding that her sallies were received with a morose indifference, relapsed into silence, and sat furtively glancing at her companion, with a pouting, disconsolate air which, it might have been thought, would have been found irresistible even by an ascetic.
At last the Maestro, after several futile attempts, and with an awkward and embarrassed air, began:
"I have been thinking, Signora," he said, "over my future plans, and I have resolved not to try to get my music performed, at present at any rate, in any great city. I am old and want rest. I propose to travel for a few months. It will therefore not be necessary to take you from Vienna."
His manner was so constrained, and his resolution so unexpected, that the girl looked at him with perplexity. It was, of course, impossible for her, in her ignorance, to perceive that what was troubling the Maestro was the difficulty of concealing from himself that he had accepted a bribe to desert his art and his friend.
"Maestro," she said at last, "what can you mean?—you to whom it has been given to achieve such a success? How can you talk of rest? What rest can be more perfect than to listen to your own wonderful music? To see, to feel, the power of your glorious art over others, over yourself?"
The Maestro hesitated and floundered worse than before. He was, as he had said himself, when under the influence of as noble feeling as he was capable of, a bad artist; but he had sufficient of the true instinct to be conscious of his bad work. He was ashamed of himself and of his fainéantise. He made a bungling business of it all round.