“Bah!” said Madame Blaken, shrugging her shoulders; “the name is entirely unknown to us. Pray, what is your brother, and for what is he celebrated?”
“For his flute,” answered Balby, with solemn gravity. Madame Blaken rose and glanced scornfully at Balby. “Are you mating sport of me, sir?” said she, threateningly.
“Not in the least, madame; I am telling you an important truth. My brother is a renowned virtuoso.”
“A virtuoso?” repeated the hostess; “I do not understand the word. Pray, what is a virtuoso?”
“A virtuoso, madame, is a musician who makes such music as no other man can make. He gives concerts, and sells the tickets for an enormous price, and the world rushes to hear his music. I assure you, madame, my brother can play so enchantingly that those who hear his flute are forced to dance in spite of themselves. He receives large sums of gold, and if he gives a concert here you will see that all your distinguished people will flock to hear him. You can set your pasty before him without fear—he is able to pay richly for it.”
Madame Blaken rose without a word and advanced toward the door. “Come, sir, come. I am going to your brother.” Without waiting for an answer, she stepped through the corridor and tapped lightly at the stranger’s door. She was on the point of opening it, but Balby caught her hand hastily.
“Madame,” said he, “allow me to enter and inquire if you can be received.” He wished to draw her back from the door, but the hostess of the Black Raven was not the woman to be withdrawn.
“You wish to ask if I can enter?” repeated she. “I may well claim that privilege in my own house.”
With a determined hand she knocked once more upon the door, opened it immediately and entered, followed by Balby, who by signs endeavored to explain and beg pardon for the intrusion.
Frederick did not regard him, his blue eyes were fixed upon the woman who, with laughing good-humor, stepped up to him and held out both of her large, course hands in greeting.