Part 25 (1/2)

Sitting by the window with her elbows on the sill, framed by the ivy and the geraniums, was a girl. Her head was propped in her hands, and her hair glittered gold in the warm sun-light against the green and the scarlet. She was gazing eagerly over the throngs on the promenade, and her blue eyes were alert as if searching for some one.

She was young and slim, and her gown was shabby, turned back at the throat as if she suffered from the heat; and her hair was cropped, lying in little tendrils of gold on her neck, curling thickly about her ears and her brow. Her cheeks were quite pale, and there was a pinched look about the lips, dark shadows under the eyes. She gazed steadily.

”If I could only see him,” she murmured to herself, half aloud, ”just once--if I could see him!” Her lip trembled a little and she caught it between her teeth: ”It is seventeen weeks--a hundred and nineteen days--since we parted,” she said, ”At daybreak on Thursday it will be a third of a year--a third of a year!”

She moved her head uneasily on her hands, and hid her eyes for a moment against the leaves of the ivy, as if blinded by the sun-beams; ”Sooner or later he was sure to come here,” she murmured, ”All musicians come here; but when I saw his face on the bill-board to-day--and his name--!” She crouched closer against the sill, and the leaves of the ivy fluttered from the hurried breath that came through her lips, shaking them as with a storm.

”If he were there on the promenade,” she said, ”and I saw him walking, with his violin, his head thrown back and his eyes dreaming--Ah!” She drew in her breath quickly and a little twist came in her throat, like a screw turned. She half closed her eyes.

”Ah--Velasco! My arms would go out to you in spite of my will; my lips would cry to you! I would clinch my teeth--I would pinion my arms to my side. I would hide here behind the cas.e.m.e.nt and gaze at you between the leaves of the geraniums--and you would never know! You would never--know!”

She put both hands to her bare throat as if to tear something away that was suffocating, compelling; then she laughed: ”He is an artist,” she said, ”a great musician, feted, adored; he is rich and happy. He will forget. Perhaps he has forgotten already. It would be better if he had forgotten--already.” She laughed again strangely, glancing about the garret with its low eaves, and the cob-webs hanging; at the pallet, and the cracked basin, and the pitcher with its handle missing.

The doves came flying about the mill, twittering and chirping as if seeking for food on the sill; clinging to the ivy with their tiny, pink claws, looking at her expectantly out of their bright, roving eyes, pruning their feathers. The girl shook her head:

”I have nothing for you,” she said, ”No--not a crumb. The last went yesterday. Poor birds! It is terrible to be hungry, to have your head swim, and your limbs tremble, and the world grow blind and dim before your eyes. Is it so with you, dear doves?”

She rose slowly and a little unsteadily, crossing the garret to the pegs where the clothes hung.

”There may be a few Pfennigs left,” she said, ”without touching that.

No--no, there is nothing!”

She felt in the pockets of the cloak, pressing deep into the corners with the tips of her fingers, searching. ”No,” she repeated helplessly, ”there is--nothing; still I can't touch the other--not to-day! I will go out and try again.”

She took down the cloak from the peg and wrapped it about her, in spite of the heat, covering her throat. There was a hat also on the peg; she put it on, hiding her yellow curls, and drew the veil over her face.

”If I could only get a hearing!” she said to herself, ”There must be someone in Ehrestadt, who would listen to my voice and give me an opening. I will try once more, and then--”

She b.u.t.toned the cloak with her fingers trembling, and went out.

”Is the Herr Kapellmeister in?”

”Yes, Madame.”

The rosy cheeked maid hesitated a little, and her eyes wandered doubtfully from the veil to the cloak and the shabby skirt.

”Kapellmeister Felix Ritter, I mean.”

”He is in, Madame, but he is engaged.”

”May I come in and wait?”

The maid hesitated again: ”What name shall I say, Madame?”

”My name,” said Kaya, ”is Mademoiselle de--de Poussin.”

The German words came stumbling from her lips. She crossed the threshold and entered a large salon, divided by curtains from a room beyond. There was a grand piano in the corner of the salon, and about the walls were shelves piled high with music; propped against the piano stood a cello.

Kaya looked at the instrument; then she sank down on the divan close to the piano, and put out her fingers, touching it caressingly. From the next room, beyond the curtain, came the sound of cups rattling, and a sweet, rich aroma as of coffee, mingling with the fragrance of cigars freshly lighted.