The audience! Of Avignon! She had never played to such an audience in her her life. They were notorious, these people, all over France. They were so stupid that before they would laugh you had to tell them a thing was funny, and then they were so suspicious that they wouldn't laugh for fear of being deceived.
All of which, of course, is a libel on the hearty folk of Avignon. But Elodie was from Marseilles, which naturally has a poor opinion of the other towns of Provence. She also lied for the comforting of Lackaday.
"They are so unsympathetic," said he, "that I shall not play any more."
She knitted her young brow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I play neither to-night nor to-morrow night, nor ever again. To-morrow I return to Paris."
She regarded him awe-stricken. "You throw up an engagement--just like that--because the audience doesn't laugh?" She had heard vague fairy-tales of pampered opera-singers acting with such Olympian independence; but never a music-hall artist on tour. He must be very rich and powerful.
Lackaday read the thought behind the wide-open eyes.
"Not quite like that," he admitted honestly. "It did not altogether depend on myself. You see the patron found that the audience didn't laugh and the patronne found that my long body spoiled her act--and so--I go to Paris to-morrow."
She rose from the depths of envying wonder to the heights of pity. She flashed indignation at the abominable treatment he had received from the Coinçons. She scorched them with her contempt. What right had that tortoise of a Madame Coinçon to put on airs? She had seen better juggling in a booth at a fair. Her championship warmed Andrew's heart, and he began to feel less lonely in a dismal and unappreciative world. Longing for further healing of an artist's wounded vanity he said:
"Tell me frankly. You did see something to admire in my performance?"