Part 34 (1/2)
”Have you told Josephine?” asked Madame Bracieux.
”Yes, Josephine is there, madame,” replied the servant.
Jeanne Dubuisson rose, but Bijou stopped her.
”No, don't come with me,” she said; ”when I feel that there is anyone listening, that is, anyone beside Josephine, I don't do any good.” And then, just as she was going out of the room, she turned round, and added: ”At three o'clock I shall appear with my hat--and M.
Sylvestre.”
When Bijou entered her room, Josephine, the old housekeeper, who had seen two generations of the Bracieux family grow up, was sewing near the window, whilst, in the little room adjoining, the musician was arranging the music-stand, and taking his violin out of the case.
On seeing the young girl, his blue eyes lighted up, and seemed to turn pale against his red face. He was a young man of about twenty-eight years of age, very thin, very awkward, and dressed wretchedly enough; but there was something interesting about his face, an expression that was congenial, and yet, at the same time, told of anxiety and of trouble.
”How warm you are, Monsieur Sylvestre!” said Bijou, as she held out her hand to him; ”and they have not brought you anything to drink yet!
Josephine!” she called out, as she moved towards the door between the two rooms, ”will you tell them to bring--ah, yes, what are they to bring? What will you take, Monsieur Sylvestre?--beer, lemonade, wine, or what? I never remember!”
”Some lemonade, if you please; but you really are too good, mademoiselle, to trouble about me.”
”I forgot to buy the music you told me to get when I was at Pont-sur-Loire,” said Denyse, interrupting him. ”You will scold me.”
”Oh! mademoiselle!” he exclaimed, in a scared way, ”_I_ scold you?”
”Yes, you! If you do not scold me you ought to. Now, let me see! What are we going to play? Ah! I was forgetting! I am going to ask you if you will begin by accompanying me at the piano; it is just a silly little song I am learning.”
”What song is it?”
”'Ay Chiquita'! it is quite grotesque, isn't it? But we have an old friend who adores it, and he asked me to sing it for him.”
”Oh! as to that!--'Ay Chiquita'--it isn't so grotesque; but it has been worn out, that's all. Ah!” he added, looking at the music, ”you sing it in a higher key. I was wondering, too--”
”Yes, I sing it higher; that makes it more dreadful still. Oh, dear!
how I do wish I had a deep voice; they are so lovely--deep voices, but there are none to be heard!”
”They are rare, certainly; but there are some, nevertheless.”
”I have never heard one,” said Bijou, shaking her head.
”Well, but you might hear one if you liked.”
”Where?”
”Why, at the Pont-sur-Loire theatre. Yes, Mademoiselle Lisette Renaud, a young actress, with a great deal of talent, and she is very pretty, too, which is not a drawback, by any means.”
”She has a beautiful voice?”
”Very beautiful! I hear her, on an average, three times a week, without reckoning the rehearsals with the orchestra, and, I can a.s.sure you, I have never had enough.”
”Ah! Do you think she would sing at private houses?”
”Why, certainly! She does sing sometimes at Pont-sur-Loire.”