“Think! think of all she did for me; saved me; fed me, clothed me, taught me when she believed I had only voice and talent enough to support myself by teaching. It was half a year before she and Monsieur began to think I could ever make them any return for their care of me. And all that time she was like a mother to me. And now she has told everyone her hopes of me. If I fail she will be ridiculed. You know Paris. She and Monsieur have enemies who will say there never was any pupil, nor any debut expected. Perhaps she will lose her prestige. The fashion may turn to some other teacher. You know what malice can do with ridicule in Paris. Let me sing for her this once, make her one great success, win her one triumph, and then never, never sing again for any soul but you—my husband!”
Her voice sank at the last words, from its eager pleading, to an exquisite modest sweetness.
“But—if you fail?”
“I shall not fail. I have never doubted that I should have a success. Perhaps it is because for myself I do not care, that I have no fear. When I had lost you—I only thought of that. And now that I have found you again—!”
She clung to him in passionate silence.
“And I may not see your debut?”
“If you come I shall surely fail! I must forget you. I must think only of my part. What do I care for the house full of strange faces? I will make them all rise up and shout my name. But if you were there—Ah! I should have no longer any courage! Promise me to come only on the second night.”
“But if you do fail, I may come and take you immediately before Monsieur the Maire?”
“If you please!” she whispered demurely.
And they both laughed, the old happy-children laugh of the Atelier.