“Don’t you?” said his nephew. “What it is like, is to make you feel rather sick—all the time—especially while you are playing it.”
“What?”
“The thing you are ashamed of.”
How I wanted to hug him!
“Antoine,” said Lucien, rising and discarding the paper, “do not be absurd. Here, look at me. You suffered that night at the concert, eh? You excited yourself so much, little imbecile. Are you tired now?”
“No, thank you—this is France,” replied Antoine. “That is a French cow,” he murmured, “not so fat. That is a French tree, not so thick. The sky is different, and the sun. The concerts will be easier, I expect.”
But the first glimpse of M. Lemaure, the grandfather, is reassuring. In fact, he’s almost as irresistible as Antoine, making you realize immediately that the battle is going to be a subtle one, and that it may be difficult to know which side to take, after all.
The old musician asks about the last recital.
“I was not at the last orchestral,” Lucien answers. “I left him in Wurst’s charge, and went to the country, ... I should not easily desert my post, as you know; but the boy made it clear enough he had no use for me. He clung to that sacré concerto of Tschedin, which he knows you detest, and which I never thought in a condition to perform. He mocked himself of my objections, contradicted me, eluded me, and twisted Wurst round his finger at rehearsals.”
“And Wurst?”