No, Corsini was not in the least tired. The warmth, the meal of which he had eaten sparingly from motives of delicacy, the Burgundy, had warmed his blood. He was no longer the weak, pallid creature who had set out from his lodging to earn a night’s sustenance.
“Why do you ask, Monsieur?”
“If you are not really tired, I would love to hear that exquisite romance again, with one or two brilliant variations. See, in that corner, stands a piano of fairly good tone. I will accompany you, or rather follow you.”
Corsini, his blood aglow with the generous stimulant, the strange circumstances, rose up, took his violin from its case, and drew the bow lovingly across the strings. The Frenchman went across to the piano, opened the lid, and struck a few chords with a touch that revealed the hand of the master.
For the next ten minutes the room resounded with the divinest melody. The deep notes of the piano mingled with the soaring strains of the violin.
Corsini, strangely inspired, played as one possessed. And Papa Péron caught every inflection, every subtle change of key. Never, during the brief performance, was there a single discord. All the time the Frenchman, old in years, had followed every mood of the younger musician.
Papa Péron dropped his slender, artistic hands on the last chord. “My young friend, you are great,” he said quietly. “Success to you is only a matter of time. Another glass of Chambertin?”
Nello drained it; he felt strangely elated. “Ah, Monsieur, but your accompaniment was half the battle. When I faltered, you stimulated me. You must have been a magnificent pianist.”
Anita broke in in her gentle voice. The daughter of an English mother, she spoke the tongue of her adopted country very fluently.
“You put great heart into us, Monsieur. But when you speak of success, I remember that we have earned just about three shillings to-night.”