“Oh! headache, I suppose? Yes; I know the disease,” he interrupted ironically, and gave her a searching glance. “That headache is a family complaint with us; we suffer a great deal from headache.”
In some alarm she looked at him; surely he could not suspect anything.
“I too got a headache whilst playing, under the hammering of the piano. It was as though I saw all kinds of colours—green, yellow, orange. When that little lively girl there—Léonie—sings, I always see orange colour.”
“And when I sing?” she asked coquettishly.
“Oh, then it is quite different,” he resumed, more seriously. “Then I always see before me a harmonious climax, from faintest pink to purple, until the whole is fused together in one delightful coalescence. Your low notes are pink, your high ones purple and brilliant. When Paul sings ’tis all gray, with a tinge of violet sometimes.”
She laughed gaily, and Paul—who had heard him—also.
“But, Vincent, these are visions of an over-excited imagination.”
“Perhaps so; but sometimes ’tis very pretty. Have you never experienced it?”
She reflected for a moment, while Ange and Etienne, who had heard the latter part of their conversation, came nearer and listened, as did Paul.
“No; I don’t think I have.” [[145]]