The soul of this dear man, which saw and revealed so many
things divine, shone like the sun. His laugh, so frank, so guileless
at seeing one of his Saint-Cecilias, shed sparkles of youth and gaiety
and innocence about him. The treasures he poured from the inner to the
outer were like a mantle with which he covered his squalid life. The
most supercilious parvenu would have felt it ignoble to care for the
frame in which this glorious old apostle of the musical religion lived
and moved and had his being.
"Hey! by what good luck do I see you here, dear Madame la comtesse?"
he said. "Must I sing the canticle of Simeon at my age?" (This idea so
tickled him that he laughed immoderately.) "Truly I'm 'en bonne
fortune.'" (And again he laughed like a merry child.) "But, ah!" he
said, changing to melancholy, "you come for the music, and not for a
poor old man like me. Yes, I know that; but come for what you will, I
am yours, you know, body and soul and all I have!"
This was said in his unspeakable German accent, a rendition of which
we spare the reader.
He took the countess's hand, kissed it and left a tear there, for the
worthy soul was always on the morrow of her benefit. Then he seized a
bit of chalk, jumped on a chair in front of the piano, and wrote upon
the wall in big letters, with the rapidity of a young man, "February
17th, 1835." This pretty, artless action, done in such a passion of
gratitude, touched the countess to tears.
Pages:
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147