"The 'Satan' contains pearls which will enchant you," replied the Alto. "But see--here comes de Sterny! I commend the 'Duet of the Outcasts' to your attention."
Followed by the capellmeister and a little group of intimate admirers, Alphonse de Sterny stepped upon the platform. The German pianist started and raised a pair of rapture dilated eyes. De Sterny, who was well accustomed to create that sort of excitement, smiled faintly, threw her an encouraging glance, and nodding to the bowing orchestra took his place before the conductor's desk. Then he let his keen eyes run over the ranks of his musical forces. The violin rows were not even.
"Who is absent?" he asked, pointing to the vacant place.
The violins looked at one another, murmured a name indistinctly, and some one said, "He is excused."
"He is only just out of the hospital," explained the capellmeister, "he often is irregular about rehearsals."
"And you permit that?" asked de Sterny, with his deliberate smile.
"He--he--never spoils anything at the concerts, and I have consideration for him because, because,"--the capellmeister stammered, embarrassed, and stopped short. "But certainly it is an inexcusable irregularity and should be punished," he added.
De Sterny shrugged his shoulders. "Don't disturb yourself," he said, "but next time I hope I shall find my musical forces all together." He rapped on the desk.
His manner of conducting was characteristic. It recalled neither the fiery contortions of Verdi, nor the demoniac energy of Berlioz. His movements at first were quiet, almost weary, his countenance wore an expression of fixed concentration; suddenly his eyes lighted up, his lip quivered, his breast heaved as an exciting climax approached, he raised his arms higher and higher, like wings with which he would wrench himself free from earth; then all at once he collapsed with a look of dejected exhaustion.
"He is killing himself!" sighed the pianist, in a gush of sympathy. But the friend of Rossini said testily: