But she--'
'C'est tout le contraire, chere. Lui, c'est moins; il est flatte. Il la
trouve une femme intelligente,' he laughed. 'Mais elle! Tu est folle de
ne pas voir ca, Edith. Enfin! Si ca l'amuse?'
With a laugh he got up, to loud applause, and went to the little white
enamelled piano. There, with a long cigar in his mouth, he struck a few
notes, and at once magnetised his audience. The mere touch of his
fingers on the piano thrilled everyone present.
He sang a composition of his own, which even the piano-organ had never
succeeded in making hackneyed, 'Adieu, Hiver,' and melodious as only
Italian music can be. Blue beams flashed from his eyes; he seemed in a
dream. Suddenly in the most impassioned part, which he was singing in a
composer's voice, that is, hardly any voice, but with perfect art, he
caught Madame Frabelle's eye, and gave her a solemn wink. She burst out
laughing. He then went on singing with sentiment and grace.
All the women present imagined that he was making love to them, while
each man felt that he, personally, was making love to his ideal woman.
Such was the effect of Landi's music. It made the most material, even
the most unmusical, remember some little romance, some _tendresse_, some
sentiment of the past; Landi seemed to get at the soft spot in
everybody's heart.
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