'You hurt me,
Monsieur! Is it a stroke at random? You spoke of a gift; you say you knew,
esteemed him. You were with him? Perhaps, a message ...?'
'He died alone, Madame! I have no message. If there were none, it might be,
perhaps, that he believed you had not cared for it. If that were wrong, I
could tell you that you were not forgotten. Oh! he loved you! I had his
word for it, and the story. The violin is yours--do not mistake me; it is
not for your sake but his. He died alone; value it, as I should, Madame!'
They were insolent words, perhaps cruel, provoked from me by the mixed
nature of my attraction to her; the need of turning a reasonable and cool
front to that pathetic beauty, that artful music, which whipped jaded
nerves to mutiny. The arrow in them struck so true, that I was shocked at
my work. It transfixed the child in her, latent in most women, which moaned
at my feet; so that for sheer shame as though it were actually a child I
had hurt, I could have fallen and kissed her hands.
'Oh, you judge me hard, you believe the worst of me and why not? I am
against the world! At least he might have taught you to be generous, that
kind old man! Have I forgotten do you think! Am I so happy then? Oh it is a
just question, the world busies itself with me, and you are in the lap of
its tongues.
Pages:
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167