Never did a girl study so hard or practise so
faithfully. It was truly wonderful. Now and then Annette would
say to papa as if to reassure herself,--
"And when Monsieur Cherbart says I am ready to go to Paris, I may
go, papa?"
And papa would say a "Certainly" that would send her back to the
piano with renewed ardour.
As for Monsieur LeConte, he was the idol of New Orleans. Seldom
had there been a tenor who had sung himself so completely into
the very hearts of a populace. When he was billed, the opera
displayed "Standing Room" signs, no matter what the other
attractions in the city might be. Sometimes Monsieur LeConte
delighted small audiences in Annette's parlour, when the hostess
was in a perfect flutter of happiness. Not often, you know, for
the leading tenor was in great demand at the homes of society
queens.
"Do you know," said Annette, petulantly, one evening, "I wish for
the old days at Pass Christian."
"So do I," he answered tenderly; "will you repeat them with me
next summer?"
"If I only could!" she gasped.
Still she might have been happy, had it not been for Madame
Dubeau,--Madame Dubeau, the flute-voiced leading soprano, who
wore the single dainty curl on her forehead, and thrilled her
audiences oftentimes more completely than the fisherman. Madame
Dubeau was La Juive to his Eleazar, Leonore to his Manfred, Elsa
to his Lohengrin, Aida to his Rhadames, Marguerite to his Faust;
in brief, Madame Dubeau was his opposite.
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