"Leon has hit the nail," thought Elvira to herself. "I wonder
how."
The how was plain enough. Leon had asked the painter if there were
no air connected with courtship and pleasant times; and having
learnt what he wished, and allowed an interval to pass, he had
soared forth into
"O mon amante,
O mon desir,
Sachons cueillir
L'heure charmante!"
"Pardon me, Madame," said the painter's wife, "your husband sings
admirably well."
"He sings that with some feeling," replied Elvira, critically,
although she was a little moved herself, for the song cut both ways
in the upper chamber; "but it is as an actor and not as a
musician."
"Life is very sad," said the other; "it so wastes away under one's
fingers."
"I have not found it so," replied Elvira. "I think the good parts
of it last and grow greater every day."
"Frankly, how would you advise me?"
"Frankly, I would let my husband do what he wished. He is
obviously a very loving painter; you have not yet tried him as a
clerk. And you know - if it were only as the possible father of
your children - it is as well to keep him at his best."
"He is an excellent fellow," said the wife.
They kept it up till sunrise with music and all manner of good
fellowship; and at sunrise, while the sky was still temperate and
clear, they separated on the threshold with a thousand excellent
wishes for each other's welfare.
Pages:
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393