At first Gesa would not hear of playing anything from his opera to the Tenor, but later, when he began to despair in secret over his work, an urgent desire to confide in some one overcame him. He played for hours to the Tenor after that, on a lamentable old piano, and wheezed the Arias at times, in a ghostly, hollow voice, only for the sake of hearing from some one the assurance, "cela sera superbe!"
Then he would talk himself into an unnatural excitement, his eyes would flash, and he would cry, flourishing his clenched fist in the air--"It has the grand manner, has it not?"
Once he had been so modest!
His means were almost exhausted. He sold his books, his watch. He always treated the Tenor patronizingly, like a dependant--and the Tenor indulged him as one whose mind was weak.
But once, as the two were sitting opposite each other before the fire in the singer's room, the latter said, passing his fingers through his hair, "My dear friend, ton genie ne te fera pas vivre!"
Gesa stared gloomily at the speaker.
"Well, well," said the Tenor, hastening to pacify him, "I only mean that the mere inception of such a grand work must require a long time. How would it be if you should occupy yourself a little hereabouts, meanwhile?"
Gesa sighed. "I could compose something small," said he. "Romances, for example."
"Unhappily that would amount to nothing unless you allied yourself with a singer or an actress, who would bring you into fashion. And then--even so it would be a dreadful pity to divert you from your chief end--to fritter you away. No, you ought to seek a place in an orchestra."
"Yes, at the opera," said Gesa, and thought of his stiff fingers with a shudder. However, as he would on no consideration have confessed this infirmity he added, with some embarrassment. "Everything is so complicated there,--so many rehearsals,--one is busy till late at night."