 Chapter 8 of The Mute Singer by Anna Koroh-Mawit Ritchie. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Kelly Taylor. Chapter 8 One person, at least, enjoyed the repasse that Sylvie's inconsequent father had so lavishly provided, and that was the prodigal purveyor himself. He presided at his humble board with lordly bearing, and as though he were entertaining in place of his pale-faced wife and drooping daughter and their unassuming friend, a host of distinguished guests. It was long since he had tasted wine, especially of a quality as irreproachable as that which he now liberally quaffed, and he drank to the health of Sylvie and to that of Maître Bourgeois, then to the prosperity of musicians in general, then toasted, in flowery phrase, the muse of music, then all her sister muses, and then the world at large. With every glass, his naturally expensive heart opened wider and wider until it took in all humanity. Just as Sylvie placed the dessert upon the table, a troupe of eager friends poured in, for, at this instant, fortune smiled promisingly on the Dilaroshes, and they discovered that they possessed numberless friends, whom they had never dreamed of enrolling in friendship's category. These good, disinterested, incurious people came to offer their congratulations and proffer their services. Dilaroshes received them en grand-seigneur, graciously appropriating their compliments as though their homage were entirely due to himself. It was not possible to invite all the visitors to be seated, for the poor apartment contained but four chairs, the piano stool, and one low bench. These, however, were soon occupied, and the side of the bed converted into a sofa. After that the newcomers were obliged to stand, as were Sylvie, her parents, and Ursul. The delighted host requested everyone present to favour him by drinking a bumper to the future laurels of the young singer, and poured the ruddy wine without stint. Mildly rebuking her for forgetfulness by a look, he desired Sylvie to hand the tarts, strawberries, and cherries to their esteemed guest. With tottering feet and trying to force a few feeble smiles, she obeyed, but the ever-watchful Ursul, perceiving her unfitness to discharge even this light office of hospitality, caught the dishes from her hands, and casting a by no means gentle glance at Dilaroshes as she passed him, whispered, It is more proper for me to do this, and do you not see how fatigued she is? Too much elated by the glory of the hour to notice an intimation that his daughter was incapable of the required exertion through weakness, he quickly took the hint that it was too great a condescension for a newly crowned queen of song to wait upon her lowly admirers. He proudly drew her to his side, and with one arm around her slender form stretched the other commandingly towards the assemblage, and harangued his guest with oratorical emphasis. Light peals of bombast intermingled with showers of roses. He thanked them for the honour of this visit, he might say, the sunlight of their presence. For their admiration of his child, which he modestly admitted was by no means misplaced, he told them that though he would ere long be compelled to remove from their midst, though possibly his path of life, once so thorny, now was about to be thickly strewn with flowers, would so widely diverge from theirs that they might meet no more upon this side of eternity. He should never forget the kindness, the sympathy, the devotion of unpretending friends who had poured bomb upon his healing wounds. He assured them that he would never look down upon the loriest of that little band, however high the position he might be called upon to occupy, and he would bury beneath the waters of oblivion all remembrance of the countless inconveniences to which he had for some years been subjected, when he recollected the happiness of this moment, the proudest of his checkered life. Claret, weak and unintoxicating beverage as it is usually deemed by the French, when it chances to be the juice of as fine a vintage as that which had been selected by Monsieur de La Roche, may mount to a constitutionally light brain, and we are inclined to think that this gentleman's natural hilarity and volubility were increased by the unwanted stimulus. A stranger would certainly have arrived at that conclusion that he was a wronged and estimable individual who had just received some rightful inheritance of which he had long been unlawfully deprived, or that he had amassed a fortune through his own ability and untiring industry which he was now permitted to enjoy for the smooth remainder of his days. A couple of hours had elapsed, but the good people seemed unwilling to disperse. Ursule, finding that no one stirred, though bottles and dishes alike were empty, de Manot into her confidence told her that Sylvie was too feeble to undergo this prolonged excitement and begged that she should give a moving hint to her friends. This considerate dame who had a sincere affection for Sylvie managed so admirably that the gratified visitors rapidly took their departure. De La Roche, elated to the highest pitch of restlessness, could not have tarried with the rather dull family party that remained. He took up his hat and told his smile-less wife that he meant to visit the Théâtre français to see the famous Rochelle, the light of whose genius had just burst upon the Parisian world. Ursule was strongly inclined to remonstrate, You cannot afford it. You have nearly wasted all the poor child's earnings already, were the words that rose to her lips, but she had not the courage to utter the just rebuke, and Monsieur de La Roche departed. To get Sylvie to bed was the next most important move, but how it was to be affected without awaking the fears of Madame de La Roche. All Ursule's tact was needed to avoid that undesirable result. The unreasonable mother had several times during the day expressed her conviction that she was about to lose all her authority over her child, and Ursule thought to turn this weakness to account. If the suggestion that Sylvie ought to retire emanated from Madame de La Roche herself, and went forth in the shape of a command, her mind might be diverted from examining the need of such an order. The ready-witted old maid took her aside and said, Monsieur de La Roche is very unreasonable. He has not proper consideration for Sylvie. You really ought to be obligated to exert your maternal rights and interfere. He made her stand for a full two hours, while your chairs were all occupied with those stupid people, whom he chose to entertain very superfluously. If you take my advice, you will order Sylvie off to bed. Assist upon her resting. Do not mind her showing a disinclination to go. Use a little needful authority. You are her mother, and you can make her obey. Madame de La Roche greedily swallowed the bait, and was highly pleased to fill herself of a little importance, for during the events of last week she had become more completely a non-entity than ever. With quite a show of command, she desired Sylvie to retire forthwith. The weary girl failed to play her part in the little drama by even a faint appearance of unwillingness, but her soul covered the deficiency by treating her as though she had positively rebelled. Now Sylvie, said the good creature deprecatingly, do not argue with your mother and try to gain, say her wishes. Don't you understand that she chooses you to go to bed? Do be off at once like a good girl, and don't dispute her orders. She knows what is for your good. Come, I will be your lady's maid and undress you. With a parade of compulsion, she led the unresisting girl into the little chamber and helped her to disrobe, and thus afforded her aid which she sorely needed. Sylvie slumbered more tranquilly than upon the previous night. She rose the next morning, partially restored, yet it seemed as though something ailed her. She could not definitely tell what. She experienced no actual pain, but was oppressed by a sinking sensation that incapacitated her from energetic action. Strength of will, however, partially supplied the place of strength of physique. She went through the round of her daily occupations without uttering a complaint, thus escaping her mother's close scrutiny. The observation of her thoughtless father it was always easy to avoid. Maître Beaujeu made his instructions very brief. Her voice required repose, he said. When the lesson ended, he remarked, Now you must go out. Go to the Tuileries, or the Champs-Élysées, or where you please, but you must have fresh air and exercise. Turning to her mother, he added, Will you accompany her, madame? How is it possible to spare the time? She answered rebelliously. I must so, and Sylvie ought to practice. I tell you she ought to walk. Thunder Beaujeu, viking his lips to restrain his ire. If you do not choose to go with your daughter, I will accompany my pupil, to whom air and exercise are of vital importance. Madame de La Roche, who writhed under Beaujeu's control, thought that to consent to this latter alternative would be giving the reins too completely into his hands. She answered quickly, No, if she was to go, I will accompany her. Very well, as you please, replied Beaujeu. Do not forget the directions I gave yesterday in regard to your diet, Sylvie, and be sure you'll spend at least a couple of hours in the open air. I will spend. No fear of forgetting that. We'll do nothing but spend. sighed the lugubrious mother as he disappeared, spend time unprofitably and spend money recklessly. It is disheartening, and we are not allowed to rule our own actions and we must submit to our fate. Sylvie hardly enjoyed the rarely accorded pleasure of a promenade on the Champs-Élysées, in spite of her mother's lengthy tirade against the cruel despotism of Maître Beaujeu and her constantly bemoaning the waste of time of which he compelled them to be guilty. Monsieur de La Roche was diligently occupied in seeking for handsome apartments and, having found a furnished suite that struck his fancy, he would have engaged it and commenced moving at once had not Sylvie ventured very gently but firmly to oppose this rash step. She failed, however, to make him see his imprudence or to alter his determination until she reminded him that they would not be permitted to leave their present lodging without paying the amount due up to the time for which it was rented and begged him to count what funds remained and calculate whether this was possible. He complied merely to humour such an excellent little daughter, he said, though it was nonsense for they had more than sufficient. Upon finding out his error he was a little staggered and Sylvie gained the day. Her father magnanimously consented to postpone the proposed removal until after her next appearance. If Sylvie herself lacked strength her voice had lost no power. It was never richer, never sweeter, never more wondrously flexible. Ursul alone noticed that her hands were still feverish and that a hectic flush crimson her usually pale cheek and faded away again at brief intervals. That Monsieur de la Rose should be among his daughter's auditors at Duke de Blanques was out of the question. The concert was given by the Duke to his friends who received cards of invitation. The evening was to close with a grand ball. Sylvie's father resigned himself to the unavoidable privation more philosophically than could have been expected but found consolation by largely indulging in glorious visions of the time when the novice of today would break loose from her master's leading strings and be solely under paternal guidance. Sylvie was engaged to repeat the three errors she had sung with so much eclat at the Saal Saint-Sécile. This was a politic arrangement on the part of Métro Beaujeu for she was not only spared the fatigue of fresh study but the verdict passed upon her execution of those songs was too enthusiastically favorable for her success to be in any peril. Her surprise was as great as her gratification when Métro Beaujeu, on the morning of the concert laid a chaplet dexterously woven of ivy leaves upon the piano and bade her wear it in her hair that night. A delicate attention from her rough master might well excite as much wonder as gratitude. He had a quick eye and a ready worship for the beautiful. He constantly lamented Sylvie's unattractive looks and pondered on the possibility of improving them. As his back was always turned when she was singing he was unaware of the electrifying change that was wrought by the outgushing of that melody which had its fountain in the recesses of her soul. He had selected this ivy wreath because he knew it would display to advantage her luxuriant dark hair and finely shaped head and give a classic effect to her pale countenance. Frenchman, as he was, he had chosen natural leaves as best suited to the unartificial wearer. Much as Sylvie prized her master's token it did not cause her to slight Matayu's offering of bright geranium blossoms though she wore in her bosom. Now, for it, how does the white silk dress become you? Is not my garland of ivy just the thing to set it off? I expect to see you trying to pass for a beauty tonight, said Metro Bourgeois, as he entered the room to take charge of his pupil, then added, looking at her more closely. Why, this is not white silk? Surely this is the common little frock you wore before. What has become of the grand toilet you were preparing? Has your skilful mantua maker soiled the white silk in the cutting? Monsieur de la Roche, who was standing by, grew nervous. He felt the thunder clouds gathering over his head and looked uneasily at Sylvie, who had not the presence of mind to answer. Ursul replied with some asperity. I have not soiled the white silk, monsieur, and if it's not ready for tonight it's no fault of Sylvie's nor of mine. Monsieur de la Roche was seized with a violet fit of coughing during which he darted pleading glances at the dressmaker. Her heart had long been troubled with a chronic softness that incapacitated her from resisting the least appeal to her generosity, and she concluded the speech so spitefully commenced with, the white silk will do for the next time. She shall certainly wear it then, with quite a determined look at the father, then to divert Métro Bourgeau's suspicions remark, those I believe give Sylvie a normal-like look. Did you ever see her appear to such an advantage? No, never. But I wish her best were better. Bourgeau could not resist the temptation to remark. Sylvie laughed with unconcerned good humor which showed that she had too little vanity to be wounded and answered, if I were as beautiful as you are frank, one might be contented, might one not, my master? Bourgeau had ordered a fiacra. An indulgence, his restricted means, had not allowed on the two former occasions. When they reached the courtyard of the palatial mansions of the Duke, the driver stopped. A crowd of equippages passed in, but he knew that it would be improper for his humble vehicle to approach nearer. Sylvie and her master alighted. What a scene of eastern enchantment burst upon their side as they entered the gate. The court was brilliantly illuminated with colored lamps rising from baskets of flowers. In the center, a fountain set up sparkling jets that reflected prismatic hues as they fell over statues of water nymphs. The whole round of the court was girdled by a wall of blossoming orange and lemon trees, intermingled with flowering shrubs and the rarest exotics. A gorgeous carpet, softer than the most velvety turf, was spread upon the marble steps and over the path that led to the carriages. Sylvie gazed about her enrapturous amazement. She imagined herself suddenly transported to some ideal land which she had only beheld in her dreams. She would gladly have lingered to examine the flowers and inhale their entrancing perfume, but Madre, Bujo hurried her on, for they were later than usual. Monsieur Le Grand greeted them with almost oppressive cordiality as they entered the sumptuous apartment appropriated to the musicians. And when they were conducted to the concert hall and Sylvie took her place among the singers, an audible murmur of delight ran through the crowd. She was immediately recognized and the audience portrayed so much impatience to hear her voice once more that not the faintest attempt was made to encore a single performer who preceded her. When her turn came, she rose with graceful self-possession and did not again forget to salute the spectators. When she sang in public before, she had beheld no one, had been conscious of no presence, had hardly remembered that she was not in her own humble little chamber. Now, amid the crowd, one face shone distinctly, throwing all others into a background of shadow, a shone for her to excited vision. That peerless head almost seemed encircled by a luminous halo. The countenance was that which had haunted her dreams and risen day and night unsummoned before her waking sight. With the eyes of her mind, she had not seen it less clearly than she saw it now. She was singing not to the noble assemblage who breathlessly drank in seraphic sounds that poured from her lips, but to one being only, one to whom she had never dared to open those lips in speech. Not that she analyzed her own tumultuous emotions or knew what she was doing or comprehended the intensity of feeling, the holy fever, which she threw into the love-breathing music. The audience had been charmed when they listened to her, O meal Fernando at the Sal Saint-Sécile, now the impassioned tone, the abandon, the reality that spoke in the voice and look, penetrated the coldest heart and created a perfect fervor by which the most insensible listener was carried away. All Sylvie's weakness had vanished. She had never felt stronger, more elastic, more at her ease. Her step was firm, her movements were free, her bosom rose and sank full and deep inspiration. If her pulses were rapid, they were also regular. She was exhilarated to the highest degree of pleasurable excitement which she had ever experienced. Was it the stimulus of adulation, the throb of gratified vanity that awoke this ecstatic sensation? Was it the exercise of the wonderful gift with which she had been endowed? Was it the dawning of some new, uncomprehended capacity of soul that filled her with its sweet, palpitating strangeness? She could not have answered these questions herself. She did not hear what was said to her and answered at random. She could not have told afterwards who had addressed her or even whether her master had spoken to her. The loud acclamations conveyed no meaning to her ears, the handkerchiefs none to her eyes until she saw one arm lifted and from that hand floated her banner of triumph. When the concert was over, as Sylvie stood with her arm in that of Metro Beaujot, looking proudly happy and bowing her adieu to Monsieur la Grande, many of the audience thronged around the ladder and begged to be presented to the young stranger. Before he could comply, Anoreen had forced her way through the crowd and, with the marquis de Saint-Amare, reached her side. I am commissioned by the Duke, said the little sprite, to beg you to remain to the ball. Let me add my entreaties to his. You do not look fatigued tonight. You seem delightfully fresh. Do stay, will you not? Sylvie's glowing face expressed no disinclination to consent. If Metro Beaujot does not object, she answered, turning her eyes upon him with a look of mingle submission and entreaty. I am sure Monsieur Beaujot will not refuse us this petition, replied Anoreen, addressing him in a tone of witching supplication. If I thought Mademoiselle de la Roche would not suffer from fatigue, he answered, the honour. Sylvie interrupted him. I am not in the least tired, my dear master. If I may, I should like to stay. And Monsieur says distinctly that you may. That look of his bade me tell you so, rejoined the lively Anoreen. I can read faces, and his is a very expressive one. Don't you think so? asked the little flatterer. My master quarrels with me when I am saucy enough to tell him that I say that his eyes betray, replied Sylvie archly. He will not deny that I have interpreted his look rightly. Will you, Monsieur Beaujot? inquired the siren. That is a liberty that I could not venture to take, returned the musician, not a little charmed at having such a pair of clear, frank, brown eyes fastened upon his time for a visage. Oh, thank you, Monsieur Beaujot, but we must take immediate possession of Mezelle de la Roche, else a host of admirers will be running away with her. So, Mademoiselle Sylvie, take my brother's arm, and Sylvie started violently, and the blood leapt in a sudden torrent to her cheeks and brow. But allow me first to present my brother, the Marquis de Saint Amar, resumed Anoreen. How surprised you look! Are you astonished that such a grave-looking personage should have such a willful, troublesome little torment of a sister? At all events, as he happens to have no other, he has no better. But do tell me, for whom did you take me? I imagined I understood that somebody said that you were Madame de la Marquis de Saint Amar. Anoreen's low, merry laugh rang out like the rapid sweeping of a hand over harp strings. Her brother replied, No, Mezelle, should I ever choose a wife, it will not be such an elvish little gossamer as this butterfly's sister of mine. Of course not! He will court some awfully stately and oppressively sensible person who will frighten me out of my wits whenever I come into her august presence and whom I shall mortally detest and will never be able to call sister. But I'll take my revenge by never inviting the odious pair to the concerts I shall give and by always having you to sing for me. Now, as my brother is passionately fond of music, that will punish him for inflicting a bore upon me as a relative. This bantering conversation was interrupted by Monsieur Lagrange who, with profuse apologies to Mezelle de Saint Amar, presented a number of ladies and gentlemen to the youthful singer. Sylvie replied to their compliments with grateful humility and answered their inquiries with unembarrassed propriety. Her modest artlessness was wholly free from a touch of shyness. It seemed as though the manners of good society had suddenly been engrafted upon her by the very atmosphere she was breathing. She stood between Honoreen and her brother, the lodestar of a circle of admirers. Maître Bourgeois, at a distance, watched her in mute amazement. As with unaffected ease she turned to each person who addressed her, smilingly accepted floral offerings, and gaily entered into conversation with old and young. The rosy glow upon her cheeks kindled up her eyes until they seemed to shoot forth effluxent rays. Her lips, even when silent, spoke through the eloquently varying expression that wreathed or curved or parted them. Her fragile form had lost its willow-like droop and the statuesque grace of her poses could not be surpassed by a sculptor's ideal. Bourgeois found it impossible to recognize his sallow-visaged, bent, weak meagre little pupil in the resplendent being that stood before him, calmly receiving the homage of an admiring crowd. In one hour the feeble, shrinking girl had matured into a strong and self-reliant womanhood. Every bud of promise had suddenly sprung into glorious bloom. There was a glamour in the marvelous unfolding. As he gazed upon her she moved away, accompanied by honorine, the marquis, and the duke. Bourgeois followed her with his eyes only. A astonishment strand fixed him to the spot. Midnight sounded. The lateness of the hour aroused him. It was time to conduct her home. She was delicate in the extreme and her health might suffer from this unusual dissipation. He wandered from the salon to salon, searching for her in vain. At last, through a small opening in the crowd, he caught a glimpse of the ivy-circuit which he had ordered that morning, little dreaming that the head for which it was destined would wear it so regally. With considerable difficulty he made his way through the throng. Honorine and Sylvie were standing together beside the sumptuously-spread supper-table. The marquis was in the act of handing the ladder a golden shell, holding an ice that made the hue and form of a peach. Though the humble maiden had certainly never seen such a frozen cream in this attractive shape or taken in her dainty fingers a shining shell of gold in lieu of a plate, she betrayed not the faintest token of surprise. Her thoughts were so engrossed that she experienced none, or else everything by which she was surrounded seemed so entirely the work of enchantment that she had ceased to wonder. It is very late, mademoiselle Sylvie. Beaujeu uttered the mademoiselle involuntarily. He could not have costed her, as was his want. You must be fatigued. It is time for us to take our leave. Must we go, my master? I am not in the least tired. Voices on every side protested against her departure. I cannot think of parting with her yet, Monsieur Beaujeu. Leave her with us a little while longer, petitioned Honoreen. Sylvie repeated the words, a little while longer in a wistful tone. She could not bear to have her dream broken so soon. The old man shook his head, but not very determinedly. There are large odds against you, Monsieur Beaujeu, said the Marquis de Saint-Hermain. You will be obliged to yield and grant us the happiness of mademoiselle de La Roche's presence for a while longer. Sylvie's eyes shone with redoubled luster, but the lids dropped suddenly over them, as though they feared to betray their own exultant gleaming. Beaujeu bowed ascent, without remonstrating and withdrew. Another hour passed and still another. Sylvie had flitted away, and her master had again lost sight of her. She was now in the ballroom watching with eager interest the gliding figures that, as they threaded the mazes of the dance, were reflected in the mirrors which lined the spacious salon from ceiling to floor. Honoreen was dancing, or rather floating through the air, as though her fairy feet were under no compulsion to touch the ground. Her brother was stately movements that kept perfect time to the inspiring movement without stooping to terpsichordian steps was leading a very young partner through the same scent. The duke was conversing with Sylvie, but her eyes were turned from him and rested upon the dancers. Honoreen was the first to spy Beaujeu wending his way towards his pupil. Fortunately the dance had just concluded and curtsying hurriedly to her partner she joined her brother, exclaiming, There is the hulk in pursuit of our singing bird let us fly to the rescue or he will capture and carry her away. But before they could reach Sylvie her tutor had told her that it was time to depart in a tone so preemptory that it silenced objection. She had made her adieu to the duke and allowed herself to be led away. You are not going yet, Monsieur Beaujeu cried Honoreen following them. Stanislas is so cross with me for having compelled him to dance when he wanted to be more agreeably occupied that I shall not be able to obtain his pardon tonight if you leave the moment the dance is over. What nonsense you talk, little madcap retorted the marquee. I trust, Monsieur Beaujeu, you will allow us the pleasure of taking mademoiselle de la Roche and yourself home. Many thanks, Monsieur de la marquee for the proposed honour, replied Beaujeu, but we have a conveyance which has been waiting for us some hours. No matter, send it away, urged Honoreen and let us take you. You are very kind, mademoiselle, but we will not give you the trouble, answered the musician, with an error such firm declination that although Honoreen looked disappointed in his reading, forbade her to remonstrate. At that moment, the duke addressed the marquee and his sister, asking their advice about a set chanpatre which he was about to give. Without further leave taking, Beaujeu conducted Sylvie to the apartment where she had left her wrappings. On passing out the street door, they found that it was raining fast. They hurried through the courtyard to the gate expected to find his fiacle waiting. It was not to be seen. In vain he hunted among the splendid equipages. The plebeian conveyance had disappeared. After many inquiries, he obtained the startling information that a fiacle had stood there until within an hour, but the driver had got into a dispute with one of the coachmen and on the approach of the police, knowing that he might be arrested, had driven away too rapidly for pursuit. What a week to do! wrote Beaujeu in deep distress. How is it possible for you to walk in this pouring rain? It is dreadful. It will ruin your voice. It will kill you. You will certainly take your death of cold. Don't believe that, my dear master. I am quite able to walk. The air will refresh me. And as for the rain, she added gaily, I do not feel it. I do not mind it more than than a swan, added Beaujeu, and a tone of compliment that sounded strangely. It was so rarely found on his lips. The next instant he shuddered and said, I do not like the comparison. It reminds me that the swan is fabled to die singing. While I shall live by singing, so your simile is really not felicitous, answered Sylvie gaily. As she attempted to gather up her dress to save it from contact with the mud, the bouquet she was carrying encumbered her. With an awkward display of gallantry, Beaujeu offered to take a charge of them. Sylvie tripped on as eerily as though she had not undergone the least fatigue, and how lightly she prattled. The rain was beating down upon her head as though she were walking in a shower bath. The old veil was drenched. The black mantle saturated. The white slippers soaked through, yet she never heated, or only found subject for mirth in these inconveniences. Maître Beaujeu listened to her pleasant talk and answered with a deference which he had never shown before. Ever in a non he inwardly asked himself with a sense of vague wonder if this were indeed Sylvie. He felt that his mind was brought into communion not with that of a mere underdeveloped girl but with that of a woman of aptitude and intellect, godless as girlhood, but salient, sparkling, comprehensive, intuitively adapting itself to incircumstances as womanhood in its finest manifestation. The clock had struck four, ere they reached the ruse and denis. It was some time before Dame Manot would be roused from her heavy slumber. When at last she opened the door and sleepily thrust out her nightcap and beheld Sylvie standing without her veil and mantle blowing in the wind and the dripping white dress clinging to her life limbs as though she had just risen from a bath, while Maître Beaujeu looked as though he had been drowned and resuscitated, the good woman shrieked with such genuine dismay that but for the wailing of the wind and the pattering of the rain, her voice would have summoned the guardians of the night. Stop your unearthly howling growled Maître Beaujeu trying to pass her. What is the matter with the woman? Oh, what is the matter with Sylvie, rather? cried the dame. Has she failed? Has she been disgraced? What has happened? Maître Beaujeu disdained to give any explanation of their present plight. But Sylvie stopped him as he hurried her on. You see how you must have misjudged this kind friend the other day, my master? You see how grieved she is when she thinks I have not succeeded? Was I not right to believe that she rejoiced at my good fortune? Then she turned soothingly to the shivering concierge. Nothing is the matter, dame Manot, except that the fiacqua disappeared. The driver got into a crawl and drove off without leave. We were obliged to walk, but everything else went well. It has been the happiest evening of my life. As they were ascending the stairs, Beaujeu inquired, at what hour tomorrow do you wish to take your lesson? It was the first time he had ever consulted her pleasure or convenience. At whatever hour suits you best, replied Sylvie with her wanted humility. But have you any preference? I can make my time conform to yours. That would not be right. I am only too grateful to take my lessons whenever your leisure serves. The old man stopped suddenly and, seizing both her hands, asked with emotion, Sylvie, will you always be grateful? Will not contact with the idle-making world change your nature? Will not the hot touch of aristocratic palms brush away the delicate bloom from your character? Will not the voice of adulation poison its sweetness? Will not world knowledge destroy your holy innocence? Will you always be what you are now? If I am, if I do not grow much better, my master, you will have cause to blush for me. They were at her chamber door. Joe released her hands, laid the bouquets he was carrying in her arms, and went on his way. Ursul was sitting up with Sylvie's parents, counting the hours as they slowly passed. It is nis to state that Madame de la Roche had worked herself into a state of almost frantic alarm at her daughter's non-appearance. Her husband's sanguine temperament, which always anticipated that which was most agreeable, caused him to conjecture rightly in this instance. He was perfectly certain that after the concert concluded, the rising star had been solicited to shine upon the ball. Though Ursul gladly accepted this explanation of Sylvie's prolonged absence, Madame de la Roche refused to give credence to any solution so pleasing and satisfactory. When at last Sylvie entered dripping with the rain, she was greeted by a general cry of compassionate distress, but her beaming face still flushed with the roses of triumph, her glittering dancing eyes and smiling lips announced that there was no cause for commiseration. Her mother's moans could with difficulty be silenced long enough to allow her daughter to relate the misadventure which led to the predicament which she assured them was of very little importance, for had she not often walked in the rain before, she asked, did it ever harm her? Ursul removed her mantle and veil without the least illusion to the damage they had sustained. On the contrary, she threw them out of sight that they might not attract attention. Then she took the bouquets out of the young girl's hands and examined them with admiration. Did you ever see flowers so perfect as Sylvie delightedly? They are beautiful, very beautiful. They are hot-house plants, but I have seen all the flowers before, years, years ago, and they all made side at some sad-rack elections conjured up by the side of these lovely exotics, but quickly chasing away the intruding memory, she relinquished the flowers saying, my dear Sylvie, you must take off those wet clothes instantly and go to bed. Come, I will undress you. Sylvie was not inclined to retire. She would have much rather lingered to enjoy her father's raptures and comfort her mother, whose lamentations at the prospect of her daughters taking coal were loud and long, but Ursul knew that threatening calamity could be averted and could only be through immediate care, and she would not consent to a moment's delay. In less than half an hour, the ivy wreath lay upon the tributary bouquets which had been carefully placed in water, and the head, though shining leaves and circle, reposed upon its unluxurious pillow, and Sylvie's bright eyes were closed in gentle sleep, while upon her lips the happy smile still lingered. End of chapter 8. Chapter number 9 of The Mute Singer by Anna Cora Mollett This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Chapter 9. Lost Gifts The shadowy light of morning had merged and brought day, but all was quiet in Sylvie's little chamber. Her mother stole softly in and found her sleeping, but ever and unknown she stirred uneasily, uttering faint moans. Her breathing was laboured. Her long hair, loosened by her unquiet movements, swept over the couch in wild disorder. Her arms were tossed above her head. She had flung aside the bed covering as though its weight oppressed her. Madame de La Roche watched her for a few moments, then hastened to inform her husband, almost with an air of exultation, at this proof of her own sagacity that her sad predictions were surely verified. He received the communication with Mary Disbelief and said if Sylvie slept she was doing well, and that breakfasts need no longer be delayed, as he had business on hand. The business in question was simply to get rid of a portion of the sum that remained out of his daughter's scanty store. Shortly after the meal was over, Ursul came to inquire after her beloved little friend, but learning that she had not yet waked noiselessly with through. Mathayu, who was hovering about the entry, greatly troubled at not hearing Sylvie's voice, though her regular hour for practicing had long since arrived, ventured to accost the Mantua maker as she passed. A look of satisfaction, pleasant to see, chased the expression of disappointment from his thin-pinched countenance when he knew that the gentle songstress was still slumbering, and he magnanimously replied that, although he always felt restless and comfortless when he missed her singing of a morning, he wished she might sleep all day. It seemed likely that his generous desire would be gratified for when Maitreau Bourjot came to the door a couple of hours later, Madame de La Roche, who wandered in and out of Sylvie's room every few minutes, informed him that she was still sleeping but very uncomfortably, and it was her opinion that she was seriously ill. If this suggestion had emanated from anyone but Madame de La Roche, Maitreau Bourjot would have felt concerned, but he was so much accustomed to her dark-side view of events and her constant cry of wolf that, without noticing the alarming conclusion at which she had arrived, he whisperingly charged her not to disturb her daughter, closed the door without a sound, and went away, content that his pupil was resting and gaining new strength. Prompted by the feminine spirit of contradiction and further instigated by her dislike to acknowledge Maitreau Bourjot's authority, Madame de La Roche returned to Sylvie's bedside and, as her daughter's head rolled backward and forward on the pillow, stooped over and spoke to her. Sylvie gave no sign of hearing, but her head still swayed to and fro, the black tresses coiling and tangling with emotion. Her mother, with rapidly increasing agitation, called her in a louder tone, still no answer. She took her hands, but even a violent pressure produced no effect. Then seriously frightened, she shook the slumbering maiden, but wholly failed to rouse her. Almost beside herself, the panic-stricken woman rushed downstairs to Ursul and implored her to hasten to Sylvie, who was probably dying. Ursul waited not to ask questions or to ponder upon Madame de La Roche's unconquerable tendency to exaggeration, but with rapid steps outstripped the summoner and stood by the sufferer's bed. Sylvie's disheveled hair, the restless movement of her head and her pain-betoking attitude were somewhat startling. But Ursul was prepared for so much worse that, with a feeling of relief, she smiled at her own forgetfulness of Madame de La Roche's idiocy which had occasioned her such a moment of anguish. The self-tormentor was at her side, whispering, Try to wake her, I could not. Try, and you will see she does not wake. The sounder she sleeps the better, replied Ursul, repressing her vexation. Sleep is a panacea for all ills. It would be very inconsiderate, very wrong to disturb her. She saw that Madame de La Roche entertained a different opinion and partly to guard Sylvie, partly to divert her thoughts from their present sad direction. Ursul sat down to the work upon which she had been employed when Madame de La Roche burst into her room and which she still held in her hand. Madame de La Roche also resumed her needle and Ursul chatted so cheerfully, well in a low tone, that the dispirited mother was gradually restored to a state of tolerable calmness. They were sitting at the window in the larger apartment, neither heard a faint exclamation, a sort of a choked cry which issued from behind Sylvie's curtain. It was repeated more audibly and in an instant both were by Sylvie's bedside. She was sitting up, her lips apart, her large eyes frightfully dilated, actually glaring with horror. As Ursul bent over her, she again made a violent effort to speak, but a hoarse murmur was the only sound that broke from her lips. Sylvie, what is it, my darling? asked the dressmaker, disguising her consternation. The young girl looked at her piteously and with great difficulty replied in a stifled whisper, I have lost my voice. I cannot speak louder. Ursul glanced at the mother, who stood at the foot of the bed weeping and wringing her hands, though she had not heard those fatal words. Do not agitate yourself, my dear girl, answered Ursul soothingly. You will be able to speak in a few minutes. At the worst you have only taken a coal, which was very natural. Do not let a transient inconvenience discompose you. Sylvie pressed her hand thankfully and replied in the same painful whisper, I felt as though I should never speak again, as though I had lost my voice forever. What does she say? What does she whisper? Why, does she not speak out and let her poor, afflicted mother hear her? cried Madame de La Roche, testily. She has taken a cold, it is nothing, nothing at all, replied Ursul. She is too hoarse to speak loudly. When a person is suffering from hoarseness, it is very wrong for them to force the voice or to use it at all. Lie down, Sylvie, and do not try to speak one word. You will soon be better. Pray do not go on in that frantic manner, Madame de La Roche, or you will excite the child to her fever. Pray be quiet, increase her fever. She has a fever then, but I did not say long ago that she would have. Did I not expect it? It has been coming on all this time and soon it will increase. It is a mercy if we do not lose her. A mercy which is in vain for us to hope for. Ursul almost lost her temper at this ill-judged but characteristic speech and could not help reflecting that, after all, there was as much justice as severity in maître bourgeois rebukes, which were never more needed than at this moment. As if her thoughts had summoned him, his knock, though much softer than usual, was heard at the door. The mother flew to open it, exclaiming, it's all over with us. It has come at last. Oh, my poor Sylvie, my poor Sylvie! Bourgeois hurried past her into the inner chamber. Sylvie turned to him with a failing attempt to smile and, stretching out her hands, murmured, it is nothing. Ursul says I will be better soon. Dear child, why do you whisper? gasped her teacher. I cannot speak. I have lost my voice. Bourgeois violin dropped and would have fallen to the ground had it not been caught by Ursul. He covered his face with his hands and a groan that sounded like the sundering of heartstrings burst from his lips. It is nothing, only a cold, only a temporary calamity and a week she will be herself, cried Ursul consolingly. A week, and I have just made a regular engagement for her which convinces before the close of this very week and she is expected to sing every week for the next three months. If she is not able to fill the contract, they will be obliged to engage someone else to take her place, my dear child, my dear, dear child. The old man kissed her forehead again and again and held her hot hands in his and smoothed back her matted hair and looked tenderly into her flushed face. The brilliant woman who had excited his wonder and admiration last night had vanished. She was again his little, humble, dependent, unfortunate Sylvie. She did not seem to notice or comprehend the intelligence he had just given. With eyes pretty naturally bright she glanced around the room when something then stretched her arm towards the little table and tried to grasp a book. Ursul handed it to her. It was her Bible. From between the leaves she took a withered flower. No one present recognized the faded sprig of heliotrope. Beaujole alone might have known from whence it came but his mind was too full of distress for reminiscences that could have given the key to this action. She muttered incoherently as she held the scentless, colorless flower before her eyes but the few words that could be distinguished conveyed no meaning. She had become delirious. I must summon a doctor at once, said Beaujole, rising hastely. Give her quiet, Ursul and you, madame. If you have the slightest consideration for your child you will not distress her by the fever from which she is suffering by letting her see your grief. If madame de Laroche made any effort to act upon this suggestion it was a vain attempt and Ursul, finding that Sylvie in brief moments of lucidity looked at her mother inquiring and with a troubled expression insisted upon the ladders withdrawing to her own apartment. She yielded sobbing out and it is come to this I am not to take care of my own child. Everyone is to have charge of her and to regulate her but I. Maitre Beaujole soon returned with Dr. Sylvester the young partner of a physician of high standing who, being personally unable to attend to his numerous patients allowed this young assistant to study his profession by practicing among the poorer classes taking or saving lies as the case may be. Dr. Sylvester examined the patient with genuine interest and an assumption of importance and gravity by which he expected to inspire confidence and atone for the absence of grey hairs. Ursul replied to his numerous questions for madame de Laroche which was either incapable of doing so or chose to remain obstinately silent. He casually asked are you her mother, madame? Then the weeping woman started forward and replied eagerly no, no, that she is not I am her mother but they give me no power over her I am nobody I must see her die and not come to her aid if you are her mother, madame? replied the doctor with severity I must tell you that this violent abulation is very harmful to my patient I shall be obliged to order you from the apartment unless you are perfectly composed. Poor madame de Laroche felt that the doctor was also in league against her and combining with the others to take her child out of her hands Dr. Sylvestra without again noticing her gave his directions to Ursul wrote a prescription and charged her not to allow Sylvie to be subjected to the least excitement Métro Beaujeu left the room with him Is she very ill, doctor? he inquired I fear that she is the fever has evidently been produced by exposure to cold and wet when her highly sensitive nervous system was in a state of violent excitement but her voice will she lose her voice? I have not been able to judge the extent to which her voice is affected for, as you saw she did not reply to any of my questions it will not be possible for her to be well enough to keep an engagement to sing in a few days do you think it will? Dr. Sylvestra lifted his eyebrows as though he were regarding a man not particularly sound in mind decidedly not Beaujeu had not the heart the courage to go at once to Monsieur Le Grand and tell him that he must seek someone to fill Sylvie's place he absolved himself from that hard duty until the morrow that morrow brought no favourable change to Sylvie her fever still raged her voice sank lower and lower her words, unconnected and wild were hardly audible at all Ursul, unsolicited, filled the post of nurse Madame de La Roche became more useless than ever her husband spent most of his time in trying to prove that this illness could be nothing of importance that she had simply caught a cold when she was heated he had often taken cold in the same way himself he added he was certain she would be restored in a few days he always was and as for her being a little out of her mind fever always made him lightheaded and fully always keeps you so mothered Beaujeu gruffly it was now absolutely necessary that Monsieur Le Grand should be apprised of the calamity that had befallen the young singer Matra Beaujeu's services had been included in Sylvie's engagement though his skill as a performer on the violin was incontestable his talents had not yet received that public recognition which constitutes fame and he doubted whether apart from Sylvie he could attain a hearing he made as light as possible of her illness to Monsieur Le Grand assuring him that it was but a cold brought on by walking in a pouring rain owing to the disappearance of their conveyance the indisposition of Mlle. Beaujeu de Beaujeu is a serious calamity at this moment when she has created such an extraordinary sensation and everyone is on the key V to hear her her fortune is made are you sure she cannot appear could she not venture upon a single song or repeat the Simerameed with Le Bonart on Thursday it will not be possible how vexatious this is very discomposing I shall be obliged to engage someone else but her really wonderful vocalisation will render the public very difficult please I trust she will recover shortly one of the disadvantages of our profession is that a favourite be not kept constantly before the audience she is soon forgotten and it is always hard to rekindle an enthusiasm which has once died out I will apprise you the instant she is convalescent Mlle Beaujeu lingered and hesitated nothing had been said about his expected performance Le Grand was too much engrossed by the unlook for disappointment of being deprived of Sylvie to think of the interest of her tutor at last Beaujeu compelled himself to say with as much indifference as possible allow me to ask whether my services will be needed on Thursday as before arranged or whether my engagement depends on that of Mara Moselle de la Roche M. Le Grand was too admirable a diplomatist not to remember that as Mlle Beaujeu controlled his pupil and his pupil would be eagerly sought after by the public the most politic compliment he could pay the master was to assume that he was held in high consideration wholly independent of his valuable scholar what a question exclaimed the wily principal with fame's surprise of course your engagement holds good without the least reference to that of Mlle Moselle de la Roche we could not dispense with you on any account by the by allow me to pay you that 200 francs due these bad tidings concerning Mlle de la Roche have made me very forgetful he counted out the money and took Beaujeu's receipt the music teacher withdrew in the most grateful mood that he had ever experienced but what was he to do with Sylvie's 100 francs if he delivered them to the father they would be certainly squandered the mother they would be equally unsafe for she would yield them to her husband Sylvie could have no voice in the matter at the present no voice the words casually used gave him a sharp pang he determined to take Ursul into his confidence and abide by her advice as she was always at Sylvie's side he was obliged to request her to grant him a brief interview in her own room had she been less absorbed by the state of her beloved charge the old maid would have suffered no little trepidation in considering to this strange petition as it was there was no room in her mind for thoughts of herself when Beaujeu made known his dilemma she strongly urged him to retain the money without making any allusion to its having been paid that if it once passed into the hands of Monsieur de La Roche it would melt as surely as though it were thrown into a fiery furnace but Sylvie must not lack any comfort answered Beaujeu I will take care that she does not reply to Ursul but her spin-thrift father probably has something left of that last 100 francs the larger portion of which he has mused his mind by throwing away I will insist upon his expending what remains upon necessary medicines it will be so much saved Ursul found herself mistaken when Monsieur de La Roche returned home that very day it was not with empty hands he asked his wife for a dish then daintily uncovered the fanciful basket that he carried and heaped the coarse piece of crockery which was placed on the table with luscious hot-out peaches now let me have your largest jar filled with water demanded he in a tone of pleasant excitement the fractured brown jug was silently placed before him in that he carefully inserted the stems of a costly bouquet next he unfolded a paper parcel and displayed the latest new novel in three volumes by Eugene Su you see I've done my part towards taking care of the dear child those peaches are just the thing for her to relish and she delights in flowers this bouquet will charm her this novel I mean to re-allowed to her myself to amuse her it is said to be a thrilling narrative and we shall enjoy all the marvelous incidents and hair-brits escapes together the basket is so pretty that I thought I would buy that too it may be of use to hold your work Marguerite and he tossed a flimsy wicker basket towards his wife Ursul who had been impatiently watching the self-satisfied prodigal now said in a tone full of quiet irony I really congratulate you upon the felicitous choice of your purchases the peaches will probably spoil before Sylvie is able to taste one the doctor happened to notice the bouquets with which she was so liberally supplied last night she ordered all flowers to be removed from the room as hurtful to his patient so these must go anywhere you please out the window if you like unless indeed you think it was worth spending the sum they cost to bestow them upon me as for the novel she could neither listen to nor comprehend the single page at present and when she is convalescent I promise you Dr. Suvestra will not allow any work as exciting as the tales of Eugene Sue to be perused in her hearing of the basket I wish you joy Madame de La Roche though you have a rather more substantial one at your side Monsieur de La Roche looked blank for an instant but quickly recovered Ursul went on mercilessly now will you have the goodness to give me five francs to pay for the medicine that Dr. Suvestra charged me to procure five francs for medicines what a sum! exclaimed Everard drawing out his purse which was evidently in a state of collapse really I believe I am not quite certain yes it is so indeed I have but two francs left is Sylvie to go without her medicine then? asked Ursul with tantalizing coolness of course not certainly not that is out of the question replied de La Roche wincing it is equally out of the question to procure it without money she returned sharply then we must borrow that is our only resource he answered with returning hopefulness let me see Major Bourgeois cannot be afraid to trust us for there will be a hundred francs passing through his hands for Sylvie and he can reimburse himself by the by I wonder why Monsieur Le Grand has not paid up yet I have a great mind to call upon him but it does not do to let such people know that one is out of funds it is better to apply to Bourgeois I would rather not ask him myself but you will do it for me my good kind Ursul you are always so ready so obliging so friendly Ursul interrupted his flattery with for her sake I undertake to arrange that matter and she did she arranged with Bourgeois to retain Sylvie's money yet to allow as much as was needed from time to time seemingly in the shape of a loan quite a masterly stroke by which Monsieur de La Roche was outwitted without suspecting her general ship end of chapter 9 chapter 10 of The Mute Singer by Anna Cora Momit Ritchie this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Kelly Taylor chapter 10 the old musician day followed day week fled after week but Sylvie still lay withering under the torrid heat of fever hourly becoming weaker and giving no sign of consciousness though her burning lips ceaselessly moved in soundless mutterings one might almost imagine that it was a gratification to Madame de La Roche to be visited by positive affliction the certainty of an actual evil seemed more endurable than the vague dread of some menacing calamity then her sad auguries had proved prophetic that was a cause for self complacency and no one could contradict her when she maintained that adversity dogged their steps that was a decided satisfaction she was comparatively cheerful under the real, tangible trial though in the midst of flattering prospects she had been causelessly depressed and ever watchful for possible misfortunes which loomed up darkly in the distant horizon her husband had refused as long as he could to believe that Sylvie's illness was serious but as week after week slowly wore away even his hopeful vision failed to trace the slightest improvement in her condition he became silent and gloomy and almost forsook his home as though he could fly from its troubles by not witnessing them Macron Bourjol's character in which growing tenderness for Sylvie had long since commenced a gradual harmonizing change was now completely softened by sorrow her confiding affection her appreciating devotion had penetrated through the hardness, roughness bitterness of his external husk into the inner, better nature that lay buried like a sweet kernel within a tough and prickly rind her soft hand had struck deep chords deep in his soul which never before gave forth a sound and but for her awakening touch might have remained mute as death even until death he had never loved any human being as he loved this patient, clinging, steady-hearted girl he looked down upon her with paternal protection and looked up to her with reverence that recognized her higher, purer mold his attachment for her touched the secret spring of his long-closed heart and opened its doors to the rest of mankind he hated others less because he loved her better every day he was more kindly disposed towards all the world because the holy mantle of her broad charity swept about his feet grief, now mingled with love melted him to such wondrous gentleness that even Matayu dared to approach him with anxious inquiries concerning the now silent songstress who made all the music of the poor cripple's untuned existence Bourgeau was moved by his desolate look and despairing tone and compelled himself to answer so cheerfully that the heavy shadows upon the boy's countenance grew lighter as he listened and the old man learned for the first time that there was comfort in comforting Sylvie's sudden disappearance from the scene of her triumphs had not proved as detrimental to her tutor's prosperity as might reasonably have been expected he was now a regular member of Monsieur Le Grand's corps frequently appearing before critical audiences and as his musical talent, cultivation and skill grew more and more apparent steadily winning laurels all that he had here to fore lacked had been a fair field upon which he could prove his claims to public favour and he struggled through half a century without ever planting his foot on that desired ground the Canaan of the musician alas how many of the noteless gifted toil through long lies uncrowned and unknown simply because the opportunity to test their powers is never accorded perhaps after all it was as needful that the musician's hairs should widen before his fingers caught the wizard touch that played at once upon the heart strings and upon those of his instrument as that violin should require years to gain that exquisite mellowness of tone which it now possessed for the old violin is endowed with a potent sweetness which age can only confer and which therefore never belongs to the new the autocrat of the breakfast table tells us that there are 58 different pieces in a violin and those pieces are strangers to each other and it takes a century more or less to make them thoroughly acquainted at last they learn to vibrate in harmony and the instrument becomes an organic whole as it were a great capsule which had grown from a garden bed in Cremona or elsewhere besides the wood is juicy and full of sap for 50 years or so but at the end of 50 or 100 more gets tolerably dry and comparatively resonant let us not then quarrel with time which gives melody not to the violin only but to every human instrument when its construction is fine and susceptible of that gradual progress towards perfection which God orders and only jarring nature rebels against Sylvie had been ill for a month when one morning Ursul who was sitting beside her chance to look up from her work and found the invalid gazing at her with totally changed expression her eyes though strangely sunken and far too large for her face were clear and calm and sane the wild lights had faded out of them the fiery spot that had glowed upon her cheeks until it seemed to have burnt the hollows now visible was quenched in ashy whiteness her lips were lightly closed no longer compressed as they had been of late when not moving speechlessly the small transparent hands were lying placidly on the coverlet her eyes wandered from Ursul's face over the bed covering then around the room as though they were searching for something just laid down with her turning consciousness her mind had gone back to the last thing thought by which it was occupied when reason for sook her and her gaze rested finally on the little Bible Ursul without permitting herself to betray the least surprise handed the volume opening it at the place where the pressed flower lay between the leaves she was rewarded by a smile the first she had beheld for many weeks the next moment Sylvie laying her hand upon the open page moved her lips then an expression of sudden anguish passed over her face with a violent effort she whispered my voice, my voice have I lost my voice Ursul could not command her own to reply a shuddering spasm convolts the young girl's frame as she wildly tried to force the sounds which died unuttered in her throat Ursul quickly regained her self-possession and said, I am thankful to see you better my dear you have been so very ill how long? murmured Sylvie indistinctly more than a month after a moment of amazement Sylvie appeared to be trying to collect her thoughts she asked speaking very slowly but in the same choked tone have I lost my voice forever? heaven forbid! replied Ursul cheeringly now that you have passed the crisis we may dare to believe that it will be restored blessed are the words of hope even when hope is faint groundless, unreal still the words that can inspire hope however fallacious are full of consolation full of vitality Ursul's words not only soothed Sylvie but imparted new strength to her feeble frame new courage to her sinking spirit Madame de la Roche, who was in her own apartment having caught the sound of Ursul's voice now entered when she saw Sylvie looking perfectly rational with a passionate burst she threw herself on her knees outside the bed exclaiming my child, my own, my only one are you indeed spared? are you better? do you know your poor broken hearted mother? Sylvie's answering caresses replied for her speak to me, speak to me cried Madame de la Roche embracing her fondly Sylvie only sighed you cannot your voice, your beautiful voice is gone then will it never return? if it be God's will whispered Sylvie and her white face grew angelic with the look which said that she could wait for what that will to be made apparent wait and hope wait if needs be without hope Dr. Souvestre and Maître Bourjeau now entered the instant Sylvie caught sight of the latter she feebly stretched her arms toward him but they dropped powerless upon the bed Ursul divined her intention and as the musician bent over her joyfully lifted up the weak, nervous arms and they clasped himself about his neck his face was buried in the bed covering and his frame shook as though he were weeping if tears of joy could not find their way to eyes the channels of which half a century had dried the freshening drops fell inwardly and revived his parched spirit the hand of Dr. Souvestre upon his shoulder roused him and he rose exclaiming I'm an old fool, I know it but it is this little witch who has worried me into my dotage but now we will have no more nonsense she will get well, will she not doctor the young physician who as usual endeavored to make up for his lack of years by great assumption of dignity did not think fit to too hastily endorse this unprofessional opinion with a solemn and stately air he merely desired Maître Bourjeau who was nearest to the patient to have the goodness to stand aside seating himself by Sylvie's bed the youthful ascopulus placed his fingers deliberately on her pulse and said, do you know me, Mamzell Sylvie she shook her head in the negative do you remember seeing me when you were taken ill still a negative motion of the head do you find yourself unable to speak she answered by a slight involuntary compression of her quivering lips and a gentle bow the doctor after extending his examination to a period which Maître Bourjeau thought needlessly protracted turned to the trio who were impatiently waiting for his decision and with a self-satisfied and somewhat pompous intonation said I am happy to pronounce my patient out of danger and to give you hope of her steady convalescence but her voice what is her health without her voice ejaculated the mother who as soon as the sun began to shine hunted after the clouds with which she had such natural affinity what a wicked look Bourjeau gave her she must not attempt to force her voice in any way replied the doctor let her write whatever she wishes to communicate but what is to become of her unless you can restore her voice and she can sing again sufficient for the day is the evil thereof madam it will be some time enough by and by to test what medical science can affect towards the restoration of her vocal cords which are now partially paralyzed I congratulate myself that she is progressing very favorably at present my orders are that she is to be kept very quiet and not allow to make the least attempt to speak he turned towards her soul as he uttered these last words intimating that he regarded her as the responsible person and gravely bowing with true Bourjeau again seated himself by Sylvie's side she placed her hand in his and whispered what disappointment for you little rebel are you not forbidden to speak do not let me see you open your lips again if you will be very quiet I will tell you all that has happened since you were taken ill Sylvie looked as though she would have said that is just what I most desire her master went on my disappointment has indeed been great but not so great as my sorrow at beholding you suffer and though I am a thankless old root by nature I have had much to make me grateful in spite of your illness that your lagrang continues my engagement Sylvie's eyes sparkled I knew you would rejoice therefore I told you that first I am prospering gaining ground with the public making friends and obtaining scholars I do not owe all this to the magical voice that melodiously spoke the open sesame that thrust the old man into the arena battle for its prizes do I not owe it to that studious little pupil who first drew attention to her obscure master and though she only flashed like a meteor across the musical firmament and disappeared did she not leave a trail of light that ever points to him Sylvie clasped her hands and no voice was needed to speak her joy but do not suppose the lost pliad is forgotten there are numberless eyes always looking to see it again and numberless voices constantly accosting me to know if there are signs of its reappearance Sylvie's eyes plainly inquired who asked for me you would like to know who why everyone Monsieur Lagrand asked after you every time he sees me and the vocalist who envied you and are glad you are out of their way make most tender inquiries after your help always hoping to receive the satisfactory answer that you are no better you look incredulous nevertheless it is the truth then Mademoiselle Belchasse who is filling your place as you once filled hers and who is terribly afraid you will not die makes more particular and affectionate inquiries than anyone else and I always take care to tell her that you will startle the world again before long besides these you have many genuine admirers who ask after you Sylvie could not help whispering who? will you be silent and obey orders? imagine yourself dumb or can't you do anything so unnatural to womankind Maitreau Bourgeois tried to laugh at his own junk but signally failed you want to know who inquires there is the Count Castellane for one the Duke de Blanc for another and Mademoiselle de Centermar never tires of asking after you and talking about you a faint rose hue suffused Sylvie's face and she sighed softly and her brother, Monsieur de Marquis has several times sought me to know if you are improving I hear he is a passionate lover of music and I made up by my long sense that he is a fine critic now I must leave you for a while as I have several lessons to give but did I tell you who has become one of my pupils? I am solely indebted to the sensation you created for that one and probably she expects me to make her as great a singer as you are though her voice compares with yours precisely as a very tiny, sweet-toned pipe compares with a superb church organ who is it? whispered Sylvie disobeying again then I really think it is time to leave you besides it is past the hour for Mademoiselle onorine's lesson Sylvie's eyes open wide with astonishment and she drew a long breath I have just commenced teaching the little elf she has a capital ear and fine taste but her voice is as small as her fairy-like self a good-sized cricket would drown it by chirping shall I give her a message from you? Sylvie made an effort to speak don't! don't! what an idiot I was to tempt you I will invent something that you will do quite as well now, adieu! I will see you again before night Sylvie would have lifted his hand to her lips but she had not the strength without noticing the action he departed after her master left she made no further attempt to speak her soul brought her some light nourishment she reluctantly swallowed a few mouthfuls and then lay back with clothes diced her mother thought she was slumbering but she was only musing over the past and counting the blessings granted her in spite of this crushing blow when she thought of her master and the bright future opened to him through her humble instrumentality the sense of gratitude overpowered all other emotions and she thanked God that she had been able to sing even those three nights and felt that the loss of her voice was not too great a price to pay for her beloved teacher's prosperity Twilight was casting long shadows when Volgeaux returned the curtain that divided off Sylvie's room from the general chamber was thrown back that she might have free air she knew his step and her eyes when he entered and watched him without venturing to utter a word he laid his violin on the bed then unfolded a small parcel and took out a porcelain slate with a tiny silver pencil attached to it by silken cord there this pencil said he is to be the jailer of your tongue you are to write whatever you wish to communicate but recollect that you are to keep the unruly member in prison until the doctor sets it at liberty now let us see what comes next he took her wasted hand in his and gently slid upon her finger the ruby ring an irrepressible exclamation of surprise and joy broke from her lips take care not a word we are to have no talking and no writing either just now he added as Sylvie grasped the pencil which her trembling fingers could not have guided you can have nothing to say there is your ring and here is my violin the two truants both returned we are quits comment is superfluous you shall only listen while the old violin at its master tell you of their joy in the language which you comprehend best Bonjour opened the case and took out the venerable instrument and as with masterly hand he woke its witching voice now to strains of exultation now of the tenderest pathos now of holy thanksgiving Sylvie listened as one enchanted but though her eyes seem fastened on the musician's time-scarred visage it was not that face she saw another countenance conjured up by the penetrating sounds which drew forth the image deepest in her soul rose up between and shut out the less captivating reality how long he would have played how long she would have listened it is not easy to divine the candle had been lighted for some time the night was of dancing but neither Sylvie nor her master had commenced to grow weary when their enjoyment met with the jarring interruption of Monsieur de la Roche's entrance Maître Bonjour rose and hastily closing Sylvie's curtain passed out to meet the father and after telling him of the cheering change in her state earnestly charged him not to excite his daughter how he induced her to speak Bonjour was strongly inclined to remain during the interview between parrot and child but doubtful of his own ability to control his temper he contented himself with giving a significant glance at Ursul and left the room his admin munitions were wasted on Monsieur de la Roche the quick silver of his mental thermometer suddenly mounted to a fever-heat and at his daughter's sides his ecstasy found vent in all manner of fantastic extravagances until Ursul with the authority of an established nurse interfered and finally expelled him from the apartment threatening not to open the door to him again that night if he did not moderate his joyful demonstrations End of Chapter 10