“What is she saying about me?” asked Bess suspiciously; and while Roger was trying to make the two ladies intelligible to each other, the little old gentleman, who had been listening at the window and had disappeared, was seen coming through the garden door. He was a benevolent-looking old gentleman, and evidently wildly excited about something. He seemed to have jumped into his clothes in such haste that it was a wonder he had not got into them inside out. His waistcoat was loose, though his coat was buttoned over it; his shoes were unbuckled, and he carried his peruke and his garters in his hand, and he had forgotten to remove his nightcap. Bess had paused for a moment from hanging out table-cloths and napkins, and stood with one white arm on her hip, while with the other she shaded her eyes; and the old gentleman, approaching her, made a profound bow.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “you are truly one of heaven’s favorites. That glorious voice of yours is fit for the choir of angels; nay, more,—it is worthy of the King’s Opera.”
“Tell him,” said Bess, turning to Roger, “that I don’t understand his lingo.”
Roger translated this, as follows,—
“Sir, Mademoiselle Lukens desires me to say to you that she highly appreciates your admiration of her voice, and begs to explain that she cannot yet understand or converse in the French language.”
With another profound bow, the old gentleman said,—
“Monsieur, I have the honor to introduce myself. I am Monsieur Mazet, one of the directors of the King’s Opera; and wherever I go—on my little journeys for pleasure, or my expeditions for business, by day or by night—I am on the lookout for good voices. I have been an enraptured listener this morning to this young woman’s singing. And I beg of you to say to her that, if she wishes to study under my direction, and is willing to pay the dole of labor which art exacts, I can promise her great success, great fame—all, all that a beautiful voice can bring to a beautiful woman.”
Here Madame Michot interrupted vigorously. “Now, Monsieur Roger, don’t put any such notions in the girl’s head. Don’t I know what becomes of poor girls who go to Paris? She will rue it the longest day she lives. I have seen them go, and, oh, my God! I have seen them return,—a sorry sight. So tell her, instead, that she had much better remain here. I will give her a good home if she will work and behave herself; and I have little doubt that she does both work well and behave well.”
Monsieur Mazet heard this with a sniff of scorn. He threw a whole volume of expression in his face as, with a grimace indicating the utmost distaste for Madame Michot, he waved his long arms about. Madame Michot, on her part, gave him a look of contemptuous pity, as much as to say, “Poor creature!”
Monsieur began hostilities by saying,—