“You are too kind to me,” Madame Torialli murmured; “but think of our poor Louis, so certain that you would agree to sing for him that he has sent out invitations already to Prince Ivan and Prince Rudolph, asking them to hear you.”
Jean started. He had written all the invitations and Flaubert had given no such order; it was Madame herself who had invited the princes to hear Salvi.
“Mon Dieu!” cried Salvi indignantly. “Do you know, Gabrielle, I am a good-natured woman, but there is one liberty I do not stand lightly, and that is a liberty about my voice.”
“Oh, my dear!” cried Madame Torialli, “don’t be too angry with the good Louis; his head is perhaps a little turned with his new toy, but he has, I know, such an eagerness to have you.”
“His head had better be turned round the other way, then,” said Salvi, grimly. “And as for his eagerness, as far as I know, that is no new quality in people who ask favours. You may tell him from me that I shall do nothing of the kind! You have reminded me that I sing for you on Wednesday. I shall not sing twice in one week.”
“Our poor Louis will be horribly desolated,” said Madame cheerfully; “but of course you are right. However, my dear, don’t refuse to come to the ball; that will be magnificent and quite amusing.”
“No, I will come to the ball,” said Salvi. “And I shan’t tell him that I won’t sing till I get there; that will pay him out!”
Madame Torialli laughed her gay child’s laughter.
“But what a mind you have!” she said. “It would be enough even without your voice, dear Salvi.”
“I flatter myself that I was not born a fool,” said Madame Salvi, complacently; and it is true that she flattered herself.