“Sir, I come to convince myself if what your brother said was true.”
“Well, madame, what has my brother said?”
“He declares that you can whistle splendidly, and all the world is forced to dance after your music.”
“I said play the flute, madame! I said play the flute!” cried Balby, horrified. “Well, flute or whistle,” said Madame Blaken, proudly, “it’s the same thing. Be so good, sir, as to whistle me something; I will then decide as to the pasty.” The king looked at Balby curiously. “Will you have the goodness, brother, to explain madame’s meaning, and what she requires of me?”
“Allow me to explain myself,” said the hostess. “This gentleman came and ordered a rich pie for you; this pasty has given celebrity to my house. It is true I have one prepared, but I would not send it to you. Would you know why? This is an enormously expensive dish, and I have no reason to believe that you are in a condition to pay for it. I said this to your brother, and I might with truth have told him that I regretted to see him in my hotel—not that you are in yourselves objectionable, on the contrary, you appear to me to be harmless and amiable men, but because of your purses. I fear that you do not know the charges of first-class hotels, and will be amazed at your bill. Your brother, however, assures me that you can afford to pay for all you order; that you make a great deal of money; that you are a virtuoso, give concerts, and sell tickets at the highest price. Now, I will convince myself if you are a great musician and can support yourself. Whistle me something, and I will decide as to the pie.”
The king listened to all this with suppressed merriment, and gave Balby a significant look.
“Bring my flute, brother; I will convince madame that I am indeed a virtuoso.”
“Let us hear,” said Madame Blaken, seating herself upon the sofa from which the king had just arisen.
Frederick made, with indescribable solemnity, a profound bow to the hostess. He placed the flute to his lips and began to play, but not in his accustomed masterly style—not in those mild, floating melodies, those solemn sacred, and exalted strains which it was his custom to draw from his beloved flute. He played a gay and brilliant solo, full of double trills and rhapsodies; it was an astounding medley, which seemed to make a triumphal march over the instrument, overcoming all difficulties. But those soft tones which touched the soul and roused to noble thoughts were wanting; in truth, the melody failed, the music was wanting.
Madame Blaken listened with ever-increasing rapture to this wondrous exercise; these trills, springing from octave to octave, drew forth her loudest applause; she trembled with ecstasy, and as the king closed with a brilliant cadence, she clapped her hands and shouted enthusiastically. She stood up respectfully before the artiste in the simple brown coat, and bowing low, said earnestly: