She choked back a sob.
“And yet you shouldn’t be too unkind to them, dear Alexis, for they have brought you fame.”
A wan smile rode the gaunt face. “Fame? What is that? A bubble which dissipates as you grasp it,” he snatched at the air. “A flower in your buttonhole that smells sweet at first, but becomes rank before nightfall. A nothing for which you pay with your heart’s sweat.” He paused and the thin fingers drummed rhythmically on the iron table. “But you mustn’t think I am ungrateful, Anne. The work itself, I love, but only for itself. It has kept me sane. That—and the boy.” His face brightened. He turned eagerly towards Anne.
“Tell me about him,” she whispered. “He must be a big boy by now.”
“Almost eleven.” The hoarse voice was full of pride. “He is in school in England—I don’t dare to keep him with me now.” He pointed to his chest. “I miss him every minute, Anne. He has always spent his vacations with me ever since he started going away to school. Before that, we were together constantly. When he was a baby the little beggar would go to sleep for my violin, when his nurse could do nothing with him.”
Anne smiled through tears. “You must love each other very much.”
“Oh, we do. He went with me on all my long tours. We have been inseparable ever since——” he choked.
She nodded. “Yes, Alexis, I know.”
He looked at her somberly. The pent-up tragedy of the years passed by in his dilated pupils. “We will not speak of that,” he whispered.
She shook her head. “No, Alexis, but it was ghastly for me, too. I feel I must tell you that, at least. I was ill, not myself, for months. I was on the point of writing you many times but——” she stopped while the crimson spread to her forehead. It seemed too brutal to tell him about Vittorio and the children.