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‘A legacy! so he is gone.’ She swayed to me with a wail in her voice, in a sort of childish abandonment: ‘and you tell me! Ah!’ she drew back, chilling suddenly with a touch of visible suspicion. ‘You hurt me, Monsieur! Is it a stroke at random? You spoke of a gift; you say you knew, esteemed him. You were with him? Perhaps, a message …?’

‘He died alone, Madame! I have no message. If there were none, it might be, perhaps, that he believed you had not cared for it. If that were wrong, I could tell you that you were not forgotten. Oh! he loved you! I had his word for it, and the story. The violin is yours–do not mistake me; it is not for your sake but his. He died alone; value it, as I should, Madame!’

They were insolent words, perhaps cruel, provoked from me by the mixed nature of my attraction to her; the need of turning a reasonable and cool front to that pathetic beauty, that artful music, which whipped jaded nerves to mutiny. The arrow in them struck so true, that I was shocked at my work. It transfixed the child in her, latent in most women, which moaned at my feet; so that for sheer shame as though it were actually a child I had hurt, I could have fallen and kissed her hands.

‘Oh, you judge me hard, you believe the worst of me and why not? I am against the world! At least he might have taught you to be generous, that kind old man! Have I forgotten do you think! Am I so happy then? Oh it is a just question, the world busies itself with me, and you are in the lap of its tongues. Has it ever accused me of that, of happiness? Cruel, cruel! I have paid my penalties, and a woman is not free to do as she will, but would not I have gone to him, for a word, a sign? Yes, for the sake of my childhood. And to-night when you showed me that,’ her white hand swept over the violin with something of a caress, ‘I thought it had come, yes, from the grave, and you make it more bitter by readings of your own. You strike me hard.’

I bent forward in real humility, her voice had tears in it, though her splendid eyes were hard.

‘Forgive me, Madame! a vulgar stroke at random. I had no right to make it, he told me only good of you. Forgive me, and for proof of your pardon–I am serious now–take his violin.’

Her smile, as she refused me, was full of sad dignity.

‘You have made it impossible, Monsieur! It would remind me only now of how ill you think of me. I beg you to keep it.’

The music had died away suddenly, and its ceasing had been followed by a loud murmur of applause. The prima-donna rose, and stood for a moment observing me, irresolutely.

‘I leave you and your violin, Monsieur! I have to sing presently, with such voice as our talk has left me. I bid you both adieu!’

‘Ah, Madame!’ I deprecated, ‘you will think again of this, I will send it you in the morning. I have no right….’

She shook her head, then with a sudden flash of amusement, or fantasy–‘I agree, Monsieur! on a condition. To prove your penitence, you shall bring it to me yourself.’

I professed that her favour overpowered me. She named an hour when she would be at home: an address in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, which I noted on my tablets.

‘Not adieu then, Monsieur! but au revoir.’

I bowed perplexedly, holding the curtain aside to let her sweep through; and once more she turned back, gathering up her voluminous train, to repeat with a glance and accent, which I found mystifying: ‘Remember, Monsieur! It is only au revoir.’