"You assure me that these little papers with the stamps on them--"
"Don't be in the least uneasy," said the countess.
"I am not uneasy," he said, hastily. "I only meant to ask if these
little papers will give pleasure to Madame du Tillet."
"Oh, yes," she said, "you are doing her a service, as if you were her
father."
"I am happy, indeed, to be of any good to her-- Come and listen to my
music!" and leaving the papers on the table, he jumped to his piano.
The hands of this angel ran along the yellowing keys, his glance was
rising to heaven, regardless of the roof; already the air of some
blessed climate permeated the room and the soul of the old musician;
but the countess did not allow the artless interpreter of things
celestial to make the strings and the worn wood speak, like
Raffaelle's Saint Cecilia, to the listening angels. She quickly
slipped the notes into her muff and recalled her radiant master from
the ethereal spheres to which he soared, by laying her hand upon his
shoulder.
"My good Schmucke--" she said.
"Going already?" he cried. "Ah! why did you come?"
He did not murmur, but he sat up like a faithful dog who listens to
his mistress.
"My good Schmucke," she repeated, "this is a matter of life and death;
minutes can save tears, perhaps blood."
"Always the same!" he said. "Go, angel! dry the tears of others. Your
poor Schmucke thinks more of your visit than of your gifts.
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