“I remembered all these things as I sought for little Christine that day; and my heart was very light to think that she—the vagrant of Zlarin—was to take her place in this house of splendour and of magnificence. Nor did I fail to be amused when I stood for a moment in the sunshine of the Opernring, and read upon a great bill that Mademoiselle Zlarin would on the following Monday evening play the part of Joseph in Mascagni’s opera. I made sure that she had chosen to remember her island home in this pretty fancy, and had posed as a Frenchwoman for memory of the mother she had never seen. Two minutes later I stood at the stage-door of the theatre asking for her.
“There was that which we call la prova being held at the moment of my arrival; but a commanding word to the door-keeper, and a gulden thrust into his hand, secured me his favour quickly.
“‘She is singing now, as you may hear for yourself,’ said he. ‘I have authority to admit no one, as a rule; but if you are a kinsman and have come from Jézero, as you say, it is another affair. Slip down that passage there, and you will catch her as she returns to her room.’
“I obeyed his suggestion quickly, and going down the passage, whose walls were encumbered with vast piles of paint-besmeared canvas, I found myself presently out upon the great stage. For some minutes I could see nothing, so dark was the scene—so little corresponding to that which I had imagined it to be when I sat in my humble place in the piccionaja. By-and-bye my eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light. I began to make out the boxes and the galleries, now veiled in white cloth. I could see the lumiera high up, as it were, at the summit of a great dome; the countless stalls below me ranged themselves like cushions of satin upon an amphitheatre of snow. When at length I could occupy myself with that which was passing at my hand, so to speak, I was aware that forty or fifty others, shadowy forms, hovered over the boards which I trod—here a woman talking earnestly to a man behind the shelter of a wing; there a ballet-master rating a dozen pale-faced girls; here, again, a carpenter busy with hammer and nails; there, again, a suggeritore, scrip in hand, and tongue well oiled. As the scene became more clear to me, I began to understand that the rehearsal was nearly over. Indeed, the main business was done, and the musician, seated before a piano on the right-hand side of the stage, was playing his notes for one singer alone. Excellency, a flare of gas cast an aureole of light about that singer, and I recognised her—but not until I had looked at her for the third time. She was little Christine!
“She had her fiddle in her hand, and there was a pretty laugh upon her face when the conductor thumped merrily with his right hand and beat time with his left. I observed with satisfaction that she was well dressed, and that her figure had matured since last I saw her. Presently she began to sing, and this was my greatest surprise of all, for though there was no great volume of voice, it was singularly sweet and pure; and my ear told me that her execution was very exact. I said to myself that she must have studied hard to arrive at so pleasing a result; and when, a few moments later, she snatched up her violin and played the music of her part, I wondered no more that she had come to the opera. Scarce another woman in Europe could have given such a display in arts so different.
“The music being finished, and the conductor having risen from his desk, I thought it time to make myself known. Advancing quickly across the stage, and holding my arms out as a father should to a child, I said:
“‘Christine, do you not know me—old Andrea of Sebenico? Oh, blessed be the day!’
“Her response to my cordiality was not such as I had looked for, excellency. She did not even offer me her cheek to kiss, but started back, a flush upon her face.
“‘Surely,’ she cried, ‘it is Andrea—and what does he do here?’
“‘Per Baccho,’ said I, ‘but this is a winter’s welcome for one who gave you——’