“Have you any children?” asked Elvira.
“No; but then I may.”
“Children change so much,” said Elvira, with a sigh.
And just then from the room below there flew up a sudden snapping chord on the guitar; one followed after another; then the voice of Léon joined in; and there was an air being played and sung that stopped the speech of the two women. The wife of the painter stood like a person transfixed; Elvira, looking into her eyes, could see all manner of beautiful memories and kind thoughts that were passing in and out of her soul with every note; it was a piece of her youth that went before her; a green French plain, the smell of apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of a river, and the words and presence of love.
“Léon has hit the nail,” thought Elvira to herself. “I wonder how.”
The how was plain enough. Léon had asked the painter if there were no air connected with courtship and pleasant times; and having learnt what he wished, and allowed an interval to pass, he had soared forth into
“O mon amante,
O mon désir,
Sachons cueillir
L’heure charmante!”
“Pardon me, Madame,” said the painter’s wife, “your husband sings admirably well.”
“He sings that with some feeling,” replied Elvira, critically, although she was a little moved herself, for the song cut both ways in the upper chamber; “but it is as an actor and not as a musician.”
“Life is very sad,” said the other; “it so wastes away under one’s fingers.”