 Chapter 14 of The Mute Singer by Anna Cora-Mawet Richie. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Chapter 14 The Great World Again Maître Bourgeois lost no time in communicating the glad tidings to Maroiselle de Saint-Amour. An enthusiastic letter of congratulation from Honoreen greeted Sylvie a few hours later. A letter filled with expressions of wonder and delight at the sudden restoration of the young singer's voice replete with pathetic lamentation over the late interruption of intercourse and closing with fond anticipations of that link so mysteriously broken would now happily be cemented. Sylvie read the bomb dropping lines with palpitating heart. If she resumed her position before the public would she not naturally be brought into contact with Maroiselle de Saint-Amour and her brother? Would she not again see him whom wisdom bade her banish from sight? Would she not again hear the soul stirring voice which set all the finest chords within her vibrating and yet would not the icy barrier of circumstance loom up between them as high, as wide, and as freezing as ever? Would she not need greater strength than here to fore in resisting temptation which she could no longer fly? Would she have courage to stand in its very midst and combat its assault? These reflections were interrupted by the incoherent ravings of her father. The day after his accident Monsieur de la Roche became dangerously ill. Violent mental excitement and the injury his head had sustained produced a fever strongly resembling that by which his daughter had been attacked. We have already said that Dr. Sylvester was a youthful partner of a distinguished physician who allowed his juvenile assistants to study their profession by practicing among the poor. Dr. Janine however accompanied Dr. Sylvester when he next visited Monsieur de la Roche. But the hasty manner in which the elder physician examined the patient and the eagerness with which he turned to Sylvie betrayed that she was the magnet which had drawn him thither. The extraordinary recovery of her vocal powers in singing while she remained unable to use her voice in speaking had doubtless awakened his medical interest in curiosity. It became worth his while to investigate a case so remarkable. He pronounced it very rare but not without parallel. Several instances of the kind were on record but this was the first which had occurred within his own cognizance. Sylvie responded upon her tablets to his numerous inquiries. After a while he requested her to endeavor to speak. The attempt proved her total inability. He unceremoniously desired her to sing. Immediately her rich rolling voice filled the chamber with the solemn groundure of the sabbat mater. At the first note her father who for some time had been tossing about talking wildly and making vehement efforts to rise sank gently back. A soft smile played over his handsome features and he lay serenely still and silent. Sylvie noted the change and as she ceased singing wrote upon her tablets is my singing likely to disturb my father? No replied Dr. Janine. If we may judge from its present calming effect it will benefit him. You have a most wonderful organ, Mon Moiseuil, the most remarkable I have ever heard. It is fortunate for yourself and the public that the injury to your vocal cords does not extend to that portion used in singing. These words were accompanied by a lobal for Sylvie's superlative talent and the dignified simplicity of her manner awakened an instinctive reverence. Dr. Syvestra who had long experienced and struggled to conceal a warm admiration for his condom patient became highly elated by his superior's complimentary recognition of her genius and attraction. It removed the dread of being charged with a youthful folly unworthy of a grave disciple of Esculopias if the doctor revealed his true sentiments. His usually pompous and consequential demeanor melted away and had Sylvie been less engrossed by her father's condition she could not have felt remarked the denouement of his manner, the unusual animation with which he conversed, and the flattering deference of his tone. He completely laid aside the solemn ear assumed in his capacity of medical advisor and became the agreeable guest, the genial friend, the incipent lover. He lingered for some time after Dr. Genine took his leave and would not have torn himself away had not Sylvie's abstracted look and absent responses betrayed her wandering thoughts. The door had hardly closed upon him when Sylvie opened the piano and with her head turned towards her father that she might watch his countenance her fingers once more magnetized the old keys and her sympathetic voice gush forth in thrilling sweetness. The same look of placid happiness that had stolen over her father's liniments before now came to them again. His restless movements ceased, his moans were hushed, the widely open lids fell softly over his two brilliant eyes, that he recognized the well-known but long silent tones was doubtful, that he listened with intense pleasure was certain. She was still singing when Maître Bourjol entered. He noiselessly approached and almost holding his breath took a seat beside her. She greeted him with a bow of welcome and sang on. At the conclusion of the strain he said and a voice hoarse with emotion. It was no dream then. No dream replied Sylvie's speaking eyes. And you will be able to sing on Saturday, he asked. Sylvie bowed her head and took his shrivel hand in hers and lifted it to her lips. I saw Monsieur Le Grand last evening, said Bourjol. He was overjoyed at the intelligence I brought. His next concert will take place at the close of the week. Your reappearance before the public will be made the principal feature. But we have decided that you shall be tested in only one piece. And I have selected that inspired strain by which you electrified us all yesterday. Do you like my choice? Sylvie's smile of assent signified that she could not have made a better. An exclamation from her mother now called the young girl to her side. The sick man made a violent effort to leap out of the bed and the feeble arms of his wife and daughter could but ill restrain him. Bourjol came to their aid and, with some difficulty, succeeded in forcing the struggling sufferer back upon his pillow. This will not do, remarked the musician, panting from his exertions. You need masculine help. Matteo has strong arms in spite of his deformity and he is faithfulness personified. We must secure his assistance. Neither Sylvie nor her mother objected and Bourjol went in search of the cripple. Soon after Matteo made his appearance by the sick bed with a visage only two beaming to be in keeping with the office he was commissioned to fill. Yet how could he look grave when a felicity he had never dared to picture in his wildest dreams had been granted him? He would hourly see the object in his adoration. He would hear, unchided, that delicious voice to which he had so often tremblingly listened by stealth. Better still he would be allowed to serve Sylvie. In assisting to watch over her father he would spare her pain and fatigue. Could his happiness reach a higher climax? Dr. Suvestra came daily and his visits were of much longer duration than here to fore. After a few moments devoted to his patient he invariably took his seat beside the young maiden and playfully pointing to her tablets started some topic of general interest which drew forth her reply. He had quickly discovered her taste and her keen enjoyment of literature and art always afforded agreeable subjects of conversation. Sylvie had perhaps noticed but she had not attached any importance to or sought to interpret the change in his deportment towards her. She treated him with careless frankness and smiling courtesy but far from suspecting that she was encouraging his passion she was unconscious of its existence. He often solicited her to sing under the pretense of watching the effect produced by her voice upon his patient. Formerly when she sang she had felt inspired by the music alone seeing and hearing nothing that passed around her raised above all subliminary recognition falling into a heavenly trance through her delight in concord of sweet sounds. Now her abstraction was even deeper but different. She no longer appeared to herself to have no auditor. True she lost sight of the elegant and refined young man sitting in silent admiration by her side of the pallid invalid upon the bed yonder whose face wore an expression of such harkening gladness of the attenuated shape hovering near whose wand visage caught some faint reflection from the sick man's joy-illumined countenance of the misshapen form that stood at the foot of the couch leaning eagerly forward with parted lips and dilated eyes yet she imagined to herself one lister ever absent yet ever present. She sang as though he always heard and the fervor that gave such thrilling emphasis to her voice grew wholly out of the vivid reality of that ideal presence. Ursul whose qualifications as nurse were of an indisputably high order was less frequently in the room than might have been expected. The cause of her absence became apparent before the evening set apart for the concert arrived. That morning Sylvie had taken out the muslin dress which she had thrice-worn in public and was dismayed to find it covered with mud and stained with the dye of the old black mantle which had been saturated in her walk through the rain. In sort of stress she had lain the dress upon the bed and stood pondering upon the possibility of getting it washed and ironed before the evening when Ursul appeared assuming a matter of course air the latter deliberately removed the discolored muslin and substituted a dress of rich white silk adorned with three over skirts of white illusion and placed beside the dress a scarf like white sash a pair of satin slippers and kid gloves. Maître Bourgeois had charged her to spare no expense in selecting an appropriate attire for Sylvie and the last few days had been occupied by Ursul in its preparation. Sylvie was expressing by lively pentamomic gestures her gratitude for the thoughtful kindness of her master and her approval of Ursul's choice when Dame Manot burst into the apartment carrying a box addressed to Mademoiselle de la Roche. It was left for you by a servant of Marquis de Saint-Omar said the concierge her eyes sparkling with kindly curiosity. Sylvie's hands trembled as she received the package and she placed it on the table unopened. Ursul with ready tacked diverted the attention of the dame by severing the ribbon which secured the cover and raising the lid. First she took out a note in Honorine's handwriting Sylvie opened it with ill disguised agitation. A layer of fresh moss was next removed beneath it lay a coronal of white chameleons and a cluster of the same pure flowers formed into a breastknot. Honorine's note said that she was counting the hours which must elapse before night arrived and she could hear and see her beloved Sylvie and bait her wear these floral tokens upon her brow and on her bosom in remembrance of the unchanging friendship of Honorine de Saint-Omar. Sylvie hardly glanced at the snowy reef and bouquet but while Ursul and Dame Manot rapturously expatiated upon their beauty turned away to prepare a cooling draft for her father. By and by Ursul closed the box and set it aside and Sylvie never once lifted the lid until it was time to commence her toilet for the concert. To refuse the request of Mademoiselle de Saint-Omar would be to lack courtesy. When Sylvie was robed in the chased white silk with its transparent tool drapery floating like a woven mist around her Ursul silently placed the Camilla crown upon the singer's shining black hair and fastened the spotless bouquet on her bosom. Her fragile form had somewhat rounded and expanded since her illness. She looked less girlish than she had last appeared before an audience. She seemed to have lived years in a few months. The repose of her manner had once emanated from unconsciousness of self, now it sprang from self-reliance. The shadow that lingered in her eyes, once so cloudless, told that some grief lay hidden beneath its calm surface and sent up its reflection out of the mysterious depths into that Sarugin heaven. Yet she was so completely queen over herself that there was something in her presence which impressed others as regal. When her toilette was complete she bent over her father clinging to the hope that he would recognize her. But he gazed into her face with a vacant stare and talked on in an unconnected and scarcely comprehensible strain. In vain she covered his hands with kisses and passed her fingers softly through his hair and laid her flower-crowned head upon his bosom. Her caresses were unnoticed. A few months ago she would have wept, but since she had struggled in fierce combat with herself, since she had known a sorrow which she was forced to bury in the deep recesses of her spirit, tears sprang less readily. Their sweet relief was checked by a self-control that bade her suffer without sign. Her mother was sitting at the head of the bed, looking less listless than was her want. The actual danger of her husband, whom she truly loved, had forced her to shake off her constitutional apathy, had made her forget to complain of imaginary or anticipated afflictions, and had caused her to inwardly vow that she would encounter poverty, privation, all manner of colonies without murmur if her husband's life were only spared. She regarded Sylvie's evening toilet with a half-smile and said, And so you are wearing at last the white silk dress of which your poor father's extravagance once deprived you. It becomes you amazingly, and that tall overdress has a charming effect. I hardly know you, Sylvie. I had no idea you had altered so much in a few months. Sylvie embraced her, but quickly turned again to her father. She could not bear to leave him thus. Me de bourgeois found her bending over the sick men, pertinaciously assaying to attract his attention. Her master addressed her somewhat more brusquely than had been his custom of light, but his rough manner was only amassed to conceal his agitation. Without one syllable of laudatory comment upon her striking appearance, he remarked that her tablets were not in her girdle, and raided ursul for forgetfulness, as though all responsibility devolved upon her. The omission was quickly supplied, and the exquisitely wrought chain of gold to which the tablets were attached, lying upon the hueless rainment, and the blue enamel cover, with one word traced in pearls just visible above the belt, gave so much character and significance to the speechless maidens attire that Me de Bourgeois deserved credit for taste as well as foreport. When Sylvie and her master entered the little retiring-room of the sale Saint-Sacile, the youthful vocalist was warmly welcomed by Monsieur Le Grand, but coldly greeted by those of his core, who dreaded that their own lesser lights might suffer eclipse through this transcendent luminary. Monsieur Le Grand had taken care that the rumor of her reappearance should be widely spread, together with the history of her loss of voice, the sudden and wonderful manner in which her power of song was regained, while she continued mute as regarded speech. The public had marveled, sympathized, rushed to the sale Saint-Sacile, crowded it to suffocation, and, being stimulated into high excitement by the novelty of the occasion, were now ready to be astonished and enraptured by talents far inferior to those with which Sylvie had been endowed. Monsieur Le Grand, who thoroughly understood how to create the greatest impression upon the sensibilities of the mass, instead of letting Sylvie sing a number of heirs, had announced her only for handle celebrated anthem, but vowed it's not leave his soul, to be given towards the close of the performance. The audience inferred that he feared she might be suddenly stricken dumb in singing, as in speaking, and were on the quivy to witness the possible calamity. On the same principle, a crowd will throng a theater to see some desperate mortal earn his hard bread by making a perilous leap which, some night, will probably cost him his life. Or, to behold a man's head in a lion's mouth, the frightful fascination arising from the chances that it will eventually be snapped off. Sylvie's tumultuous greeting from the expectant crowd, when she was led forth by Maitreblejeu, who claimed that privilege, may readily be imagined. Those human waves rose and sank and rose again and roared and grew still, and roared again, until the hall seemed filled with a living sea of humanity, stirred by simultaneous motion, and endowed with one voice, that motion an earthquake, that voice a thunder pill. Several moments elapsed before silence was restored, and Maitreblejeu commenced the prelude. With the first notes that broke in ringing richness from Sylvie's lips, the clamor burst forth anew with redouble furor, and so completely drowned her voice that she was obliged to cease singing. Maitreblejeu also stopped playing. Yet not by this vociferous welcome was Sylvie moved. Though she trembled until her cloud-like drapery resembled a soft white mist, stirred by light zeffers. On a reen and her brother occupied seat directly in front of her, one flashing look, and her eyes did not turn in that direction again. They were lifted up above the ocean of human heads, and whatever they beheld was but an air-painted image. Once more, the loud cries of welcome and congratulation died away, and once more, Sylvie's voice, like the trumpet that takes the low note of a viol, that trembles and triumphing breaks on the air with its solemn and clear, rang out as full as a trumpet, as low and sweet as a viol, trembling and triumphing, solemn and clear. Almost before the breathless stillness at the conclusion of the anthem was broken by new rapture Sylvie bent and passed from the sight of the spectators. Then ensued vehement efforts to recall her, but they were futile. Monsieur Legrand knew that the desire to hear her hereafter would be heightened by the refusal of an encore. His congratulations to Sylvie were accompanied by a petition that she would engage to join his corps for one year to sing wherever on the continent or in Great Britain he might require receiving five hundred franc per week and her traveling expenses. Sylvie had no hesitation in accepting this apparently munificent offer, but referred Monsieur Legrand to her tutor, and Major Bourgeois expressed himself contented with the proposition. I will call upon Manoiselle de La Roche tomorrow morning, said Monsieur Legrand. She can sign the contract and the affair will be closed. Bourgeois knew that it would not be politic to allow a person in Legrand's position to witness Sylvie's poverty and the humble manner in which her family lived. He therefore objected to the proposed visit, urging as a reason that Monsieur de La Roche was dangerously ill. Legrand regarded him suspiciously as though he inferred that the musician meant by this demure to make difficulties and finally demand higher terms. Bourgeois, comprehending his look, replied with some asperity and no little dignity. In objecting to your calling upon my pupil tomorrow at the risk of disturbing her father and thus distressing her, I found no fault with your proposition. I should have told you frankly if I had done so. If pin and paper are at hand, the contract can as well be drawn up and signed tonight before we leave the hall. The necessary writing materials were speedily procured. The contract was duly prepared, signed, and witnessed. A copy was then made to which also signatures were attached. One paper was delivered to Sylvie, the other kept by Monsieur Legrand. The young singer was formally bound to follow her profession in whatever locality he directed for the next year. The time occupied by this business transaction allowed the crowd to disperse. Dr. Souvestre, as Marmoselle de La Rocha's physician, had gained admission to the retiring room and while Monsieur Legrand was arranging some minor matters with Bourgeois, entertained Sylvie by repeating the economists he had overheard. Sylvie had cherished a hope that as she passed in the street she would meet honorine. Honorine was all she said to herself. It was near the entrance of the sale Saint-Sécile that she had encountered her once before. As the youthful vocalist came forward, leaning upon Bourgeois's arm and with Dr. Souvestre on the other side earnestly talking to her, she scarcely dared to lift her eyes. From beneath her long lashes, however, she soon saw there was but one carriage waiting. It was that which Bourgeois had engaged. The equipage of the marquis was not visible. Honorine had been carried off by Madame de La Tour, who probably had accompanied her to the concert for this very purpose. Sylvie looked up with a disappointed expression. A tall and stately form emerged from the shadow thrown by the building and appeared to be approaching her, but the figure did not pause, as seemed its first intention. The hat, lifted in passing, showed the intellectual countenance of the marquis de Saint-Amare. He did not speak a single word, and Sylvie felt as every true artist, who is also a true woman, must have felt that, unpraised by the man she loved, all praise was breath only, and the triumph so glorious in the eyes of the great world was unsatisfactory, incomplete in her own eyes. public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Chapter 15. A New Home. Honorine was excited and annoyed to the verge of positive anger when she found herself irresistibly hurried into the carriage by Madame de La Tour as soon as the concert was over. To wait until Sylvie came forth to join her and implore an explanation of her late singular conduct had been Memzal de Saint-Amare's earnest desire. When her aunt so warmly opposed her wishes and insisted on her returning home immediately, the possibility that she had something to do with the cessation of Sylvie's visits for the first time flashed through Honorine's mind. This suspicion rendered her only more determined that the interrupted intercourse should be renewed, though indeed she had long since resolved upon that, and had only waited for some favorable opportunity to carry out her intention. She turned to appeal from her aunt to her brother and to ask the latter to deliver a message to Sylvie, but he had disappeared. Honorine did not retire that night until she heard his footsteps in the corridor and, rushing out to meet him, eagerly inquired, Did you see her after I left? See whom? Why, mademoiselle Sylvie, of course. Yes, I saw her leaving the concert hall. And you spoke to her, of course? No. How singular! But perhaps she was surrounded by people whom was she with? Monsieur Bourgeois and a gentleman. I thought she knew no gentleman. Was he young and handsome? Yes, if I am a judge of good looks. But why did you not join her and find out who he was? I should be vexed if she formed other agreeable acquaintances and ceased to miss ours. I have made up my mind to see her myself, and nothing can prevent me. The next day, when mademoiselle Bourgeois came to give her lesson, Honorine greeted him by emphatically closing the piano and leaning upon it with an air which might be interpreted into a declaration of rebellion and independence. I want no music today. I am not in the vein, she began. I do not mean to take a lesson. I want to see mademoiselle Sylvie, and nothing else can content me. My aunt would not allow me to linger until she came out last night. But I tell you I must and will see her. I cannot call at her present lodgings, for you say that there is but one room, and her father is dangerously ill. Besides, I suppose it would not be proper for my brother to accompany me there, and Madame de la Tour would not allow me to go with the domestic. Now that mademoiselle Sylvie's success is assured, why does she not occupy apartments where I could visit her? You must make her do so, positively you must. To hear is to obey, replied Bourgeois, good humordly. As your suggestion is unquestionably wise, I promise to act upon it. Will you, good dear Monsieur Bourgeois? And will you do it at once? Yes, you must act at once. I am impatient to see Sylvie, and I hate delays. Do go in search of apartments instantly. I cannot take a lesson today, therefore you have an hour at your disposal. Bourgeois not only found it impossible to refuse, but he saw the propriety of the request, and took his leave, promising to apprise his refractory pupil, as soon as he had found a fitting abode for the young singer. There was little difficulty in finding handsome or humble furnished apartments in Paris, and entre sol, in the roue angloème, close to the Champs-Élysées, struck mademoiselle Bourgeois so favorably that he secured it within an hour after he commenced his search. An entre sol, as our readers are probably aware, is the story between the ground floor, ré des chaussées, and the first story. The ceilings are low, and it is generally a more economical residence than any other desirable portion of the house. The suite of rooms which pleased the musician combined elegance and economy. The locality was charming, the rent 400 francs per month. The apartments consisted of a parlor, dining room, three bedrooms, kitchen, and servants' apartments. The furniture, without being showy, was convenient and abundant, and chosen in exceptional taste. The concierge recommended two excellent female domestics who would divide the work between them. After making an appointment to see these necessary additions to the household, on the morro, Bourgeois returned to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Ask mademoiselle de Saint-Hémar, he said to a servant, if she will allow me to give her a lesson now, and say that I have complied with her request. Honorine came dancing into the room, accompanied by her brother. Bourgeois's prompt execution of her orders caused her spirits to mount too high for a lesson to be thought of that day. Her master must go at once, she said to Sylvie, and prepare her for a speedy removal. This command of the self-constituted little sovereign was given with such graceful imperiousness that the musician had no alternative but to comply. The marquis had been unusually taciturn during Bourgeois's brief visit. Are you not glad, brother? Are you not rejoiced that we shall be able to see mademoiselle Sylvie once more? Now there can surely be no impropriety in my visiting her, and in your accompanying me say, are you not glad? I am always glad when you are glad, little sister, reply the marquis, with inexplicable gravity. A few moments after he ordered his fate on and drew. Shall we follow him on his mission through the streets of Paris? If we may judge from the thoughtful yet pleased expression on his countenance, he has some agreeable object in view. He first stops at Playel's Depot of Pianos, and after carefully trying a number of instruments, selects the finest, and orders it to be sent to the apartments hired for Misseur de la Roche in the Rue Angoulême, Numero Black. The fate on next draws up before a magazine de Mubez. Here he chooses a richly carved Roseward Library, rather diminutive in size, suitable to a small apartment, and desires it to be sent to the same locality as the Piano. After this, he visits a magazine, celebrated for its collection of choice books. Here he passes an hour, gathering together a sufficient number of standard works to fill the shelves of a little library, and himself writing a line in each volume. The next place that the marquee enters is a fabrique de jardin Hadralix. After inspecting all the beautiful inventions for holding plants that may bloom in the drawing room, he orders the most tasteful to be sent immediately to a certain florist. These jardinaires are constructed with a fountain in the center, which sends up a tiny jet of water amidst a patière of bright blossoms. The marquee reaches the florist soon after the jardinaire is received, and gives the most minute directions concerning the plants which it must contain when it is sent on the morrow to its final destination. A marble bust by a distinguished sculptor completes the purchases of the nobleman. It is a Saint-Sécilia, with upraised eyes and parted lips, whose seraphic look conveys the impression that her song is not for the ears of mortals. After leaving mademoiselle de Saint-Omarre, Beaujeu made his way to the Rue Saint-Denis, and without preface informed Sylvie that suitable apartments were engaged for her, and that she must prepare to enter them in a couple of days. When her characteristic prudence caused her to object to this step and pronounce it premature, he informed her that he was the best judge of the fitness of the proceeding. It was absolutely necessary, he asserted, that she should occupy rooms where Monsieur Lagrange might call upon her to transact any necessary business. He took care not to allude to any other possible visiters, and concluded by saying that her father would be benefited by the change of air and additional comfort. The last suggestion overcame Sylvie's scruples. The possessions of the De La Roches were too few to consume much time in packing. Everything was ready at the hour Beaujeu had appointed for the removal. Monsieur de La Roche was to be transported to his new home upon a litter, with Beaujeu and Matayu walking by his side. Ersoul, Sylvie, and her mother went in advance to prepare for and receive the invalid. We will not attempt to paint the surprise and pleasure of the feminine trio who first reached the delightful abode selected by the musician. Before they had leisure fully to examine the apartments, the sick man was brought in and laid upon his comfortable bed. The fresh air and gentle motion produced a sporadic effect, for he had fallen into a quiet slumber. Sylvie watched him a while as he slept, but finding that he did not stir left her mother and Matayu beside him, and joined her master in the parlor. He was seated at the piano playing, and did not notice her entrance until she traced upon her tablets the words, how kind of you to have thought of this, and held them before his eyes. Truly I deserve no credit, answered Beaujeu, rising. I do not remember to have seen this instrument when I engaged the rooms, and yet is one of Pléal's best. Sylvie pointed to the little librarian, and wrote, what rare enjoyment I shall derive from those books. Books, ah yes, that library is really an exquisite piece of furniture, but I am an old dot, for I did not notice that either, and I do not remember seeing those flowers growing so beautifully with the fountain playing in their centre, though one might suppose that Jardinair, which fills the whole window, and is really a minute your garden, was too striking to escape the notice and the admiration of anybody with a pair of eyes, and I did not remark that Saint Cecilia, which has a face so like yours, yours when you are singing, I mean. Truly I shall begin to fancy that age is telling upon me. At all events, I am glad that you are satisfied. Now I must leave you, for I have lessens you all day. I will give your address to Monsieur Lagrand in case he desires to wait upon you. Flowers had always had a strong attraction for Sylvie, and when she found herself alone, she examined the floral treasures of the Jardinair more minutely. A circle of heliotrope, girdled the little fountain, and filled the air with penetrating perfume, heliotrope. That flower had associations sweet as its own breath for Sylvie. She did not dare to dwell upon them, but turned away with a smothered sigh, stifling those dangerous rising memories. But wherever she went, the haunting fragrance of the heliotrope pursued her, encondered visions of the past before her eyes, and called back words to ring in her ears that stirred her strangely, sweetly, and yet most painfully. To divert her mind from these perilous thoughts, she unclosed the glass door of the bookcase, and, glancing over the titles, took down a volume of racine. As she opened the book, her eyes fell upon the word. Marmoselle Sylvie de La Roche. Her name, written on the otherwise blank page, could it be possible? Maître Bourgeois had distinctly declared that he had not noticed the library. It could not have been supplied by him. She opened another volume, and another, and another, still the same name appeared within. The books were Sylvie's, selected for her, and by whom? She thought of—she would have answered on a ring if she had been asked of whom she thought, but the handwriting was not hers. Were those characters wholly unfamiliar? Upon the little porcelain slate now lying in her trunk, were there not a few lines still on a face? And in that very hand? When her soul entered, she found Sylvie standing by the library, lost in thought, her eyes fixed upon the writing. I have come to bid adieu, said the spinster with assumed calmness. I find your little establishment in perfect order. Maître Bourgeois is a wonderful manager. He has engaged two excellent servants. Jeanette is a middle-aged woman, and will cook for you. Rosine is a strong, able-handed girl, and will keep the rooms in order, attend to table, etc., etc. As neither of them can read, you will have some difficulty in communicating with them yourself, but I have spared you all the trouble I can by giving them directions. Sylvie's caress said, You will always spare one trouble. I must go now, resumed Ursul. I will come to see you often, and you must let me assist you in taking care of your father. I shall miss seeing you every day, Sylvie. I hardly know. Her lips trembled, and she could not finish her sentence. Sylvie's tablets were in her hand, but before she could write a line, Ursul had hurried out of the room. The warm-hearted dressmaker had not before uttered a word which portrayed how severely she suffered from this separation. Her intercourse with Sylvie had awakened a thousand pleasant emotions that brightened a desolate life. She had often thought that she knew what a mother's happy sensations must be through the affection she experienced for this young girl. Strange to say, Bourjeu had been conscious of a similar feeling. Sylvie was to him as an own and only child, and the sole happiness, sole prosperity of his existence had emanated from her. If Sylvie's parents were unfitted for their holy office, two beings had been sent to occupy their places who loved her with the tender devotion, the thoughtful solicitude, the earnest seeking after her good, which characterized parental affection in its strength and purity. End of Chapter 15, Chapter 16 of The Mute Singer by Anna Cora Moet Ritchie. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor Chapter 16, Luminous Clown Honorine's impetuous spirit could not brook delay where her affections were concerned. She admitted that it would be more proper to allow a few days to elapse that her friend might become familiar with her new residence before she sought her there, but at the same time declared her intention of visiting Sylvie the very next morning after she took possession of her apartments in Rue de Angluyne. The objections and representations of Madame de Latour were unceremoniously set aside by this child of impulse. She listened to her aunt with patience that good breeding demanded, but when she concluded abruptly turned to her and her brother and said, I will be ready at two o'clock. Will you not accompany me, Stanislaus? If not, I will take Claudine. Claudine was a trustworthy femme de chambre who had been Honorine's nurse during her childhood and was now promoted to the higher office of ladies maid. The marquee hesitated, reluctant to refuse, though unwilling to consent, but finally yielded under protest to the tiny tyrant's despotic will. Sylvie was at her father's bedside when the card of her visitors was received. This was fortunate for it gave her ample time to compose herself before entering the drawing-room. Indeed, her mean was so tranquil and self-possessed that Honorine, as she embraced her again and again with hearty warmth, chided her for her coldness. Yet Sylvie returned the greeting of Mumsell de Saint-Homare as though unaware of any other presence. When at last she saluted the marquee, who stood silently by, it was without extending her hand or lifting her eyes. This apartment is charming, said Honorine, glancing approvingly around the room. Now I may come and see you often, may I not? How cruel you have been to forsake me so long! You owe me an explanation before you have the right to forgiveness. Come, confess. Tell me what prompted you to behave so strangely. Sylvie raised her downcast eyes beseechingly, and Honorine could not resist their mute pleading. I will not ask you then, she responded generously. I cannot abide mysteries, but I will tolerate this if you promise that our friendship shall not again suffer interruption. Come, promise. Sylvie hesitated, evidently troubled and uncertain. Then she wrote upon her tablets. Who can answer for the future? Will you not promise to receive my visits, asked Honorine, in wounded accents? What could Sylvie answer? Could she cast aside friendship so warmly tendered? Could she trample underfoot affection so pure and disinterested? She wrote, I must ever be grateful for your visits and receive them thankfully. Receive me, that is all I ask, replied Honorine, with returning vivacity. Remember our compact, and I will trouble you with no more questions. The young girls seated themselves upon a cossouse drawn close to the fire for it was a bright, cold day in February. The Marquis, who with painful anxiety had awaited Sylvie's reply to his sister's inquiry, now wandered restlessly about the room. After a while he paused before the Genère and examined its luxuriant bloom to see if his orders were faithfully executed, and symmetry of outline and blending harmony of coloring had been preserved in the disposition of the plants. When Sylvie's delighted eyes first rested upon that bed of odorous blossoms, the miniature fountain in the center was sending up sparkling jets that scattered a dewy spray upon the surrounding leaves, but in something less than an hour it had ceased playing to her great regret. The Marquis had learned at what time she was expected, and had taken care to have the fountain set in motion before she entered her new home. He now, unreflectingly, touched a spring that acted upon the hydraulic machinery, then suddenly fearing that he had betrayed his secret, walked away with ill-assumed nonchalance. The silvery sound of the fallen drops struck on Sylvie's quick ears. She turned suddenly for the first time that day her eyes met those of the Marquis. One conscious, transient look told all that she had divined, yet scarcely dared to believe. The finely toned piano, the richly stored bookcase, the marble sensicilia, the rare plants, all that ministered to her taste, all that Metro Bourgeois had declared he had not seen when he had engaged the apartments, had been supplied by a guardian hand, the invisible influence of which she had felt, even when she denied to herself its agency. Yet why should that hand, plant flowers in her path, open volumes for the cultivation of her mind, play statues to charm her eyes, or send music to aid her voice and gladden her home? Ah, why indeed! Honoreen was puzzled by the paling of Sylvie's cheek, the increased rapidity of her breathing, and the tightening pressure of the hand that she, Honoreen, chance to hold. The Marquis had not uttered a single word, and so pointedly kept aloof that his sister, when she saw the direction of Sylvie's glance, fancied that their young hostess might be hurt by his singular and inexplicable conduct. Brother, why do you not come and talk to us, how dull and tiresome you are this morning? That implies that I am sometimes otherwise, thanks for the admission, replied the Marquis, with a faint attempt at gaiety. You are not half so as agreeable as late as you used to be, answered Honoreen, pettishly. You have not seemed like yourself for some weeks, and you don't appear to take interest in anything that interests me. Perhaps then you can dispense with the wet blanket of my society for a little while. I have an engagement, and if you propose to prolong your visit to mademoiselle de la Roche, I will leave you and call in a half an hour, may I? Of course you may. You are so stupid and fidgety that we certainly do not want you, do we, myself, Sylvie. Has he not your leave to depart? Sylvie bowed. Too promptly to be suspected of the compliment of a passing regret, at least so the Marquis thought, as he left the room. The half hour doubled itself before he returned. He found an addition to the party which the young ladies would probably have pronounced an agreeable one. A gentleman was talking to them in an animated strain. They were laughing merrily at some anecdote which he was recounting with captivating fluency and spirit. The nobleman at once recognized the young gentleman whom he had seen with Sylvie when she left the Saal Saint-Sacile a few evenings previous. Come on, Honoreen, said the Marquis to his sister without taking a seat, I have only time to escort you home. How soon you have returned, replied Honoreen poutingly, but rising as she spoke. Adieu, mademoiselle Sylvie. I am coming to see you again very soon, to-morrow, if you will let me. Sylvie needed no language to express her glad consent. To the Marquis she merely courtesy'd with the same graceful coolness as before. As he was quitting the apartment he turned almost without being aware of what he was doing and rapidly scrutinized the gentleman with whom he had left her alone. You seem to have been very much entertained by Mademoiselle Sylvie's visitor, he remarked to his sister on their way home. Yes, he is a most delightful person. He relates charming anecdotes and in quite a dramatic style, she replied. Dr. Sylvester is his dame. Mademoiselle Sylvie tells me that he attended her during her long illness and is now the physician of her father. Rather a juvenile doctor, replied her brother, dryly, and not greatly occupied with his patience since he has leisure for the amusement of two young ladies at this hour of the day. Oh Mademoiselle Sylvie says that he always remains in talks to her after visiting her father and I am sure she must be glad to listen to such an agreeable person, and one who must be so kind and attentive when she was ill, she must lead such a solitary life. The Marquis bit his lips and looked thoughtful and troubled. His sister prattled on without waiting for replies or heeding his taciturnity. The next morning he left the house before she appeared at the breakfast table. Honoreen expressed a hope that he would return soon after noon. Where do you wish him to take you? asked Madame de La Tour graciously. To see Mademoiselle Sylvie, of course, answered Honoreen with a rebellious air. We have not met for so long that I intend to bore her with visits as a punishment for her staying away from me. If my brother does not return in time, I mean to take Claudine with me. That will not be necessary replied the diplomatic aunt. I will accompany you myself. You exclaimed Honoreen in astonishment. Yes I. Is it very wonderful that I should think it proper to go where my niece chooses to go? The sanction of my presence is needed for her to escape remark, perhaps sin sure. Madame de La Tour had a double object in view. In the first place, if she accompanied Honoreen, there was no need of her brother's presence. In the second, she said that during this visit her quick perception might enable her to gather material for a fresh plot, through which she might possibly work out a new and more lasting breach. She was not disappointed in her calculations. Dr. Sylvester had just visited his patient and was sitting in the drawing room with Sylvie when Madame de La Tour and Mademoiselle de Saint Amar were announced. Sylvie was not in the least aware of Madame de La Tour's sentiments of animosity and did not disguise that she was complimented by her visit. The lively sallies of Sylvester broke pleasantly through the formality which the presence of Honoreen's aunt gave to the conversation, and Sylvie smiled gratefully upon him, never dreaming that her look of approval might be misconstrued by him or anyone present. Madame de La Tour did not need to suspect that this handsome and polished young man was Sylvie's admirer. It was enough for that ready-witted lady that she had seen him and could report that he was a lover. It mattered not with how little foundation she had stored the desired materiel for her finesse to work upon, and her internal satisfaction made her particularly condescending to Sylvie. Mademoiselle de Saint Amar was at once delighted and deceived, and when, as they were returning home, her aunt not only listened to but echoed the praises bestowed upon the young singer, Honoreen reproached herself for ever having imagined it possible that Madame de La Tour could have taken any part in producing the late estrangement. When Honoreen met her brother at dinner and very naturally commenced talking to him of Sylvie, she was surprised to find that he was already aware of the recently paid visit. He had received a full and graphic account, he answered, somewhat sarcastically, from their aunt. He did not add that she had confidently described Dr. Suvestra as Sylvie's favored lover, and had thus confirmed his own suspicions, or rather his jealous fears, for he had scarcely ground to build actual suspicions upon. Monsieur de La Roche had visibly improved since he had exchanged the close atmosphere of the Rue Saint Denis for the purer air of the Rue Angloen. On the fourth morning, after his removal, he opened his eyes and gazing around the elegant apartment in which he lay, thought himself in a delicious dream. He beheld his wife at the foot of the bed, and at once noticed the change in her whole appearance. She wore a neat black silk dress, and a most becoming cap. She was no longer bending double to ply her needle, but held in her hand an open book, which she appeared to be perusing with interest. He had not seen her look so young and cumbly for many years. While he was gazing in dreamy wonder, the sound of a piano fell upon his ears, accompanied by a melodious voice. Surely that deep, resounding contralto was Sylvie's voice, that voice which he had believed hushed in silence forever. It touched a chord that started a train of memory. He recalled the hour when he last heard those melifluous tones, remembered his accident, and the sudden and marvelous restoration of his daughter's vocal powers which ensued. But what had followed? Where was he? Marguerite, he said feebly. His wife dropped her book and started to her feet. Marguerite, he repeated with more energy. Is that really you? And is that our Sylvie's voice? Have the dark clouds which shadowed our lives turned their silver lining at last? The clouds are gone, returned Madame de La Roche, with a burst of grateful emotion. You know me. You are yourself again. You will recover. There is no cloud now. God be thanked! Have I been ill then? And for a long time? His wife, as soon as she could sufficiently command herself, related all the events that had occurred since his accident and during the period of his unconsciousness. He was so much overcome by the narrative that he could only gasp out. Is it real, then? No card-house building, as Maître Bourgeois called it, the walls will not crumble around me, and that patient, toiling, heaven-blessed child is the sun that gave their luminous lining to our clouds. Matteo, who was always in attendance, had been a silent witness of this scene. Unprompted, he hastened to summon Sylvie. Who could attempt to describe the depth and intensity of her joy, when her father's arms were once more about her neck, and coupling their name with tenderest epithets, he poured forth his thankfulness and love. She could not be induced to leave his side that day, not even to receive the visit of honorine, who came, accompanied only by her femme de Chambre. Madame de La Roche usually shrank from strangers, but in this instance she readily complied with her daughter's request and presented herself to Mamzelle de Saint-Amour to apologize for Sylvie's absence and communicate its happy cause. If Madame de La Roche had experienced any timidity, it would have been rapidly dispelled by the ready sympathy with her joy, which honorine invents, and by her ingenious praises of Sylvie, and by the affectionate manner in which she dwelled upon the brilliant career that apparently awaited the songstress. When the gratified mother returned to her husband's apartment, her face was almost as radiant as that of her daughter. The invalid, as he looked upon his wife's beaming countenance, could not help saying, You believe in good luck at last, eh, Mauret? Do not remind me how ungrateful and undeserving I have been. She answered in accents of self-reproach. Sylvie has taught me to trust, and the lesson will never be unlearned, come what may. When honorine, the ever devoted, paid her daily visit on the morrow, she was accompanied by her brother, though Sylvie's greeting of the former was unusually animated, her deportment towards the latter was as reserved and constrained as ever. The marquis congratulated her upon her father's convalescence, and asked if he might be permitted to see him. These were the first words he had addressed to her since the happy day when they last walked in honorine's conservatory together, the day that preceded so many weeks of sad separation. Sylvie looked surprised, but pleased at the request, and retired to praise her father. In a few moments she reappeared with her mother, who begged the marquis to have the goodness to accompany her to the chamber of her husband. Monsieur de La Roche was so completely bewildered by this unexpected visit that he could not recover himself sufficiently to be led into any extravagance by his elation. The marquis took a seat beside him, and, after a few courteous inquiries, hoped that he would shortly be restored to complete help, adding that a friend of his wanted a secretary, and that he had taken the liberty of recommending Monsieur de La Roche. The position, he went on to say, was a confidential one, and, independent of a liberal salary, his associations would be of a kind that a man of education and refinement must find agreeable. It was well that Monsieur de La Roche had been so completely subdued by illness. Well, that he was almost speechless from surprise, for the few words of thanks and acceptance he was alone able to utter made a highly favorable impression on the marquis. None of the enthusiast olden bombast, none of his floor integration of sentiment found vent, and his rampant egotism was completely laid at rest. The marquis arrived at the conclusion that, major bourgeois, from whom he had learned many particulars concerning Sylvie's father, had done that individual singular injustice. The nobleman, when he returned to the drawing-room, where his sister and Sylvie were sitting in loving proximity, did not make known the object of his visit to the invalid. Thanks would have been painful to him, and he considered that none were due. In serving Sylvie, though he believed her heart was bestowed on another, he took as much delight as though that precious gift were his own. Love that deserves the name is ever purely disinterested. It seeks the well-being of the object, beloved, without craving after gratitude, without asking the compensation of returned affection, without the remotest reference to self. It would have given infinite joy to a nature as large and liberal as the marquis possessed, to watch over Sylvie from the distance, to shower good gifts upon her with an invisible hand, to smooth her path of life, and guide her steps unseen, to secure her happiness at any sacrifice, even that of yielding her to one whom she loved better. The health of Monsieur de La Roche now rapidly improved. A revolution had taken place in his character as remarkable as the change in the mental organization of his wife. His tendency to indulge in visionary projects remained, but it was kept in check by a promised reality which would require prudence and energy. Through the force of habit Madame de La Roche's anxious fears and gloomy anticipations were now and then reawakened, but they were quickly banished by the remembrance of the joyful certainty which she had been blessed. Let it not be supposed that Sylvie, because she appeared to be free from the striking faults of her parents, was absolved from the sequences of the great law of inheritance, that these failings must be hereditarily transmitted to her was inevitable, but, as we have said before, the tendencies derived from her sanguine father were counterbalanced by the precisely opposite qualities inherited from her melancholy mother. Then again, the unhappy results of the two palpable shortcomings of both acted as a warning. Besides this, Sylvie possessed remarkable strength and individuality of character. She could not copy anyone, even a parent. Her actions were never the mere reflex of the actions of others. She could not forego the right of election and complacently walk in the path others had trodden, and take it for granted that it must be the best because it was beaten by their familiar feet. She must examine, judge, determine, avoid or accept for herself. A sense of responsibility, early implanted by what we vaguely call circumstance, imparted this self-reliance and gave to her character its almost severe uprightness, its striking force and dignity. End of chapter 16. Chapter 17 of The Mute Singer by Anna Korra-Mawet Ritchie. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Chapter 17. The mob and the singer. The plans of the enterprising Monsieur Le Grand, who built high hopes upon the powerful attraction of the new vocalist and look forward to a brilliant musical season, were unexpectedly frustrated. The revolutionary spirit, which for a long period had agitated the murmuring masses in Paris, had given forth at intervals a sound like low mutterings of distant thunder before the storm breaks forth in fury, now began to assume a distinct voice and take a definite and menacing shape. The month of February 1848 was advancing and rapidly ripening those portentous events which, culminating, burst into action on the 24th and led to that fierce struggle when France went mad with the fantasy that she could become a permanent republic without possessing the first fundamental elements of republicanism. Monsieur Le Grand, though not wanting in patriotic feeling, loved his art, and the accumulation of gain by its successful administration far better than politics. Whether France remained a monarchy or proved herself capable of becoming a republic was a matter of secondary importance to him, so long as music stirred the hearts of the million, and concert rooms were crowded. But after the inauspicious 24th of February when Louis Philippe trembled upon the throne, from which he was shortly after ignominiously driven never to rescind, trade was at a standstill, shops were closed, places of public amusement almost deserted. Occasional brief lulls of the popular excitement did not deceive Monsieur Le Grand, his prophetic spirit warned him that the struggle would be of protracted duration and keep the public mind unattuned to harmony for months to come. The judicious leader wisely turned his face towards other less distracted lands, and resolved upon an immediate tour through Great Britain. His musical core was ordered to hasten all necessary preparations and a prize that he expected to depart in a few days. As we have already stated, Meitre Bourgeois was a regular member of Monsieur Le Grand's company. He would not therefore be separated from his beloved pupil. Although he was nominally and actually her guardian, it was indispensable to her comfort and respectability that she should have a protector, companion, or attendant of her sex. When this necessity suggested itself to Bourgeois, whose watchfulness never slumbered, he at once sought a soul and with little difficulty persuaded her to accompany them. He also induced Monsieur Le Grand to include her traveling expenses in those of Sylvie and to make a small addition to the weekly salary of the latter that she might be able to renumerate Ursule for her time and services. Monsieur and Madame de La Roche, contemplated yielding up their daughter without more sorrow than was natural, they had become wonderfully forbearing and reasonable. Sylvie's own emotions were of a conflicting character. The pain of parting from her father before he was fully restored to health counterbalanced the pleasure she had experienced at the prospect of seeing foreign countries gaining information and entering fully upon the labors and glories of her profession. The duties of Meitre Bourgeois had been enlightened by the convalescence of Monsieur de La Roche and the poor cripple could not help feeling that the sole bright epic of his shadowed existence was drawing to a close and that his occupation would shortly be gone. From the moment that he heard of the proposed journey his homely countenance betokened the most poignant grief and though he said nothing heavy size would burst from his laboring breast as he crept about the room and he became so absent that the invalid for the first time was forced to rebuke him for inattention. This change in the deportment of the unfortunate boy did not escape Bourgeois for he comprehended its cause and was readily moved to pity. One morning as he was conversing with de La Roche and noticing the languid motions and rooping mean of the ungainly attendant who was brushing his master's clothes the musician came to a sudden resolution. Kindly impulses appeared of late to be ever uppermost in his nature. Monsieur Lagrange cannot stir without his valet, he said, addressing the invalid. My toilette does not compare badly with his nowadays, but I have never indulged myself with the luxury of a valet. As I shall have a young lady under my charge to whom a servant might be useful. I have a great mind to engage one. What do you think? Matteille appears to be tolerably handy and tolerably faithful. You're almost well enough to spare him. Would you object to my taking him with us? With what a gasp and bound the deformed boy leaped from his corner, dropping his coat and brush at the words. His hands clasped, his uncouth features distorted by the sudden transition from despair to hope. He ejaculated, Take me, take me with you. I will be the most faithful of servants. Say you will take me, or I shall die. Young man, you're oppressively tragic, replied Bourgeois with mark gravity. If a breath can save your life, we will not permit your immediate dissolution. You shall go with us. There, that will do. Now don't interrupt us with any grimaces or gymnastic exhibitions. If you want to dance upon your head, go to the kitchen and give Jeanette the benefit of the feet. Go, go! If Matteille, when he rushed from his new master's site, did not literally obey the bidding, he probably vented his ecstasy in a manner not less fantastical and comical. Great and ill-concealed was the satisfaction of Madame de la Tour when she learned that Sylvie was so shortly to leave Paris. Honourine, on the other hand, was inconsolable, and she made this approaching parting her excuse for spending every moment that she could absent herself from home with her friend. Claudine always accompanied her upon these visits. The Marquis had not made his appearance in the Rue de Angolim since his interview with Monsieur de la Roche. The revolution had burst forth by fits and starts, led by an invisible and nameless leader, and as the excitement died away after each brief crisis, the higher classes entertained a hope that the proposed application of Louis-Philippe would restore peace and order. It was during one of these apparently calm intervals that Honourine entreated Sylvie to accompany her to the boulevards to a certain jeweler's, one of the few who kept his shop open, and assist in selecting a handsome snuff box for a parting token for Metro Beaujol. The young girls were only accompanied in their expedition by the Thème de Chambois of Madame de Saint-Homage. The equipage of the Marquis had reached the boulevards and was approaching its destination when the alarmed occupants of the carriage suddenly became aware that the city was again in commotion and on the eve of some fresh emit. Groups of savage-looking men were gathered here and there, talking loudly and gesticulating freely. Others were occupied in tearing up the pavement, and completing barricades commenced some days previous. Honourine, at the entreaty of her more prudent attendant, had given the order to hasten home as rapidly as possible, when the sound of martial music, half-drowned by the frantic shouts of the populace, broke on their startled ears. The carriage was suddenly turned and the horses dashed off into a gallop. Unfortunately the tumult came from the direction in which they were going. Down an adjacent street rushed a bend of turbulent workmen. Their blue blouses torn and flying in the wind, their grim faces rendered hideous with passion. Their bare and brawny arms encumbered with clubs and other instruments of attack. Claudine leaned out of the carriage to rick and ornter, but in an instant drew back Kara Strickin, and, crying as she hastily closed the window, « L'étoile rouge, the red flag, the red flag, they are carrying the red flag, and they are close upon us!» The insurgents had substituted this ominous red banner for the tricolored flag of France. The coachmen lashed his horses, but the high-spirited animals, unused to the whip, reared and plunged without making progress. The arms upon the panels of the carriage caught the attention of the mob, and in a moment the coach was surrounded. Shouts of « Abba les aristocrats! Down with the aristocrats! Down with the aristocrats!» rose on every side. In another instant the coachman was torn from his box and buffeted it about amongst the crowd. The gaily-dressed choiseur was pulled down, and his rich livery stripped off and rent to tatters. Both domestics were soon lost to the sight of three terrified and unprotected women who helplessly witnessed the outrage. The violent blow of a rude fist shattered the window pane. Another blow on the opposite side sent a shower of broken glass into the carriage. One sharp piece struck the white forehead of Honoreen, and a bright red current trickled down her face. At this site Claudine lost all self-command, and her piercing shrieks mingled with the roars of the brutal men who now thrust their ferocious faces into the carriage, charging those within to shout « Vive la République! Long live the Republic!» Claudine, not comprehending the order, wrung her hands and sobbed and screamed hysterically, begging for mercy. Honoreen was struck as speechless as Sylvie through extreme terror. Pale and voiceless, the trembling maidens shrank into the corner, clinging to each other, too much appalled for thought or action. The doors of the carriage were plucked from their hinges. The steps let down. Infuriated men mounted on either side, and thrust themselves half into the coach. The shrieks of Claudine were redoubled, but still she took no heed of the command to join in the cry of Vive la République. One of the men seized her in strong arms, and in spite of her wild struggles dragged her into the street. Arene sprang up aghast, clasped her hands imploringly, tried to speak but fell back into a deep swoon. With a jeering laugh another man stretched his arms toward her, but before she was in his grasp Sylvie lifted her insensible form and clasped it tightly to her bosom. The next instant she too was forcibly drawn from the carriage, and stood in the midst of the enraged crowd, but she had not relinquished her polled, and Honoreen lay close to her wildly throbbing heart. She knew that there was no mercy to be expected, even for women, and that the lives of two young girls, whom the maddened mob looked upon as obstinate aristocrats, would be meat food to satisfy or feed their fury. With the imminent peril her paralyzing fears vanished, her presence of mind, her self-possession returned. She thought not of her own danger, there was none for her if the insurgents were only made aware that she herself was no aristocrat but a child of the people. It was the peril of the beloved friend lying senseless in her arms that quickened her wit. Truly it is very good for strength to know that someone needs us to be strong. With that need for another, a strange unnatural calmness, a marvelous power, was infused into the strong soul of the feeble girl. As the command to cry, Vive Laro Publiques, was echoed around her, coupled with the savage threat, she lifted one arm with a gesture of command, and then her glorious voice pealed forth in trumpet tones. And the stirring words of the Marseille hymn boomed over the heads of the multitude. Her hat had fallen off, her dark, luxuriant hair streamed in wild confusion to her knees. Her large blue eyes were dilated to a fiery blackness, the look of horror upon her blanched countenance melted into one of heroic resolves. One arm was still appraised, the other supported the light form of her unconscious companion without seeming to tax her strength. Over Sylvie's arm, as she sang, drooped on Arine's head. Her hat also was gone, her chestnut hair unbound, the bright blood still oozed slowly from her temples, and splashed drop by drop upon the disordered dress of the dauntless songstress. With the first out ringing of that patriotic adoration, a deathlike stillness fell upon the angry waves that so lately surged up and roared around, threatening to swallow those too tender and defenseless being. Men held their breath in sudden awe, with eyes fastened upon the heroic maiden, who stood so fearlessly before them, seemed ready to prostrate themselves at her feet in dumb veneration. But when she reached the last verse, and with a fervor that electrified every heart, the words, Amour sacré de la patrie, conduis son tien nos voix vainqueuse, gushed forth a perfect tempest of sharps, rent the air, and the singer, born onward as lightly as those she had floated upon, that rapturous breath, was gently replaced in the carriage with honorine lying in her arms. The eyes of the unconscious girl were still closed, and her sweet upturned face gave no signs of life, save the slow trickling of the red drops. Amid deafening her oars, the horses of the Marquis de Saint Amar were released from their harnesses, and Sylvie saw them dash past the window. They will find their way back, and their presence will give them the alarm. Was her rapid thought, as she turned her eyes anxiously upon honorine, a dozen men had taken the places of the noble steeds, and were preparing to bear the young singer in triumph and in in safety, homeward. Have the goodness to tell us where you lived, mademoiselle, said one of the artisans, addressing her in such a subdued and respectful tone, that she could hardly recognize him as the individual who had seized the unlucky Claudine. Sylvie essayed to speak, forgetting her inability in the agitation of the moment, but no sound issued from her colorless lips. Happily, her tablets were in her girdle. She opened them and wrote, Rue de Anglime numeral blank. The men repeated the street and number to his comrades, and it was echoed from mouth to mouth. Then the carriage dashed through the parting crowd amid prolonged huzzahs that followed it on its way, for a rapidly moving throng kept dangerously close to the wheels. They reached the Rue de Anglime. The Sanctress descended from the carriage, still holding honorine in her arms, but as light as was her weight, now that the strength imparted by the excitement subsided with the peril by which it had been produced, the exhausted maiden tottered upon the threshold. One of the men pressed forward to relieve her of her burden, but she shook her head and loosened not her grasp. The cheers of the crowd had brought the inhabitants of the whole neighborhood to their doors and windows. Sylvie looked up, saw Mathayu for one moment, and the next moment he was at her side. She placed honorine in his arms and, still clasping her motionless hand, mounted with difficulty to her own apartment. Mademoiselle de Saint-Homare was laid upon the sofa, and Sylvie was kneeling beside her, aiding Madame de La Roche, in her efforts to restore consciousness when the rescued maiden slowly opened her eyes. Mathayu had disappeared. The room was filled with strangers. Honorine gazed about her in alarm and murmured in a terrified tone, Sylvie, Sylvie, are we safe? Sylvie replied by a reassuring embrace. Just then she caught the sound of a well-known voice and rose suddenly. The Marquis de Saint-Homare was trying to force his way through the crowd. Brother, brother, said Honorine, extending her arms towards him. The people would gladly have kept the aristocrat back, but Sylvie waved her hand. The imperative gesture was instantly obeyed, and room was made for the Marquis to pass. His sister, feeble as she was, had risen to approach him, and now sank upon his breast. He laid her tenderly upon the sofa and, turning to Sylvie, caught both her hands and said in a voice so tremulous that it was hardly audible. I owe you my sister's life. How gladly I would devote to you my own, if you would accept so poor a gift. Sylvie withdrew the hands which grew cold at his touch. Her hueless cheek became gaslier. Her bowed head was averted. It was quickly lifted at the sound of Matayu's voice, crying to the people to let him pass, assuring them that it was a physician whom he brought. Sylvie saw Dr. Sylvester made a few steps towards him as those seeking refuge from the Marquis, but her faltering feet refused to support her, and she leaned heavily against her mother, struggling with the sense of faintness that crept over her blinking eyes, turning her blood to ice. She scarcely heard Dr. Sylvester's voice whispering in her ears. You are ill. We must get you out of this crowd and into your own apartment. Take my arm. Lead on me. Hardly conscious she mechanically obeyed. The eyes of the Marquis followed her with an expression of intense anguish. When she withdrew the hands he had seized, when she almost shrank from him, when she turned with such a ready confidence to the young physician, he felt the one had wholly lost what the other had gained. He was roused from these depressing reflections by his sister's anxious inquiries. In reply he told her of the return of the unharnessed horses to their stable, of the panic which ensued, and which was quickly increased by the arrival of the bruised and bewildered coachmen, who could only tell that he lay prostrate upon the ground, almost trampled to death, and he heard a voice singing the Marseille hymn, that a moment after he was lifted up and saw Marmoselle de La Roche standing in the midst of the crowd singing, with Marmoselle de Santa Marre lying in her arms, and that he had made his way through the listening throng unmolested and rushed home. After Sylvie left the apartment, the people dispersed. Métayou was dispatched for a carriage, and the Marquis reconducted his reluctant sister to the faux-bourg Saint-Germain. End of chapter 17. Chapter 18 of The Mute Singer by Anna Korra-Mollet-Ritchie. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Kelly Taylor. Several days he left before Paris sank again into a state of deceptive transitory quietude, and the blood of her children was washed from her flagstones, ere long to be crimsoned anew with homicidal stain. The delicately reared honorine was completely prostrated by the shock. Her nervous system had sustained, and the long swoon which ensued. The effects of exhaustion and excitement upon Sylvie were merely temporary, but her parents were unwilling to allow her to venture forth. Her last brave act of devotion had doubly endeared her to Mademoiselle de Santa Marre, who pined for her society and fretted herself into a fever because she was separated from her. These two young maidens were bound to each other by ties as strong as though kindred blood sent its glowing current through their veins and brought their hearts into responsive pulsation. An internal recognition of kinship revealed each to the other as a sister in spirit. Let men jeer at the friendship of women as they will. There are rich feminine natures whose tender attachment to one of their own sex is as potent, as enduring, as indispensable to happiness, as the love that binds them in holy bondage to man. Honorine and Sylvie belong to this class of beings. The attentions of Dr. Syvestre had become so marked that Sylvie, without distinctly regarding him as a lover, began to experience an unwanted embarrassment in his presence. He had never framed his passion into definite language. He had only told Sylvie how tenderly she would be remembered by him during her absence, how earnestly he hoped not to be forgotten by her. What right had she to take it for granted that he meant to pay her the highest compliment a man can offer, and to crush his hope by the intimation that it would not be acceptable? The increasing awkwardness of her position towards him caused her to rejoice when, one evening, Metro Bourgeois unexpectedly brought the intelligence that the plans of Monsieur Le Grand were completed, and that he and his company would leave for England in a couple of days. Sylvie could not depart without bidding adieu to Honorine, who was still confined to the house by indisposition. It was with no little difficulty that Monsieur and Madame de La Roche were persuaded to allow their daughter to transverse the streets, even in a close carriage, and under the protection of Metro Bourgeois. When they finally consented, it was with a stipulation that she would not be absent more than a couple of hours. Sylvie regarded punctuality as one of the highest virtues, and after her promise was given, her mother knew that she would return upon the very stroke of the appointed hour. Metro Bourgeois and his pupil found Honorine lying upon a couch in her boudoir, looking very pale and feeble. Her brother, set beside her, reading aloud, in the hope of wiling away hours rendered tedious by her nervous and impatience of restraint. As he rose to greet the welcome visitors, the last words he had uttered to Sylvie, I owe you my sister's life. How gladly I would devote to you my own, if you would accept so poor a gift, rang in her ears. She tried to persuade herself that they were spoken in the excitement of the moment, that they conveyed no meaning beyond an expression of deep gratitude, that they had been forgotten as soon as they fell from his lips. Still, they sounded like a haunting melody, and she could not shut them out. The coldness and reserve she had, of late so successfully assumed, gave way to uncontrollable agitation, and it was well that, in bending over Honorine, her conscious face was hidden, and her emotion concealed, or attributable to anxiety, for her friend. Unable to regain her self-possession, Sylvie could not some encourage to apprise Honorine that she had come to bid her adieu until, glancing at the clock, she found it was nearly time to return home. She rose hurriedly and wrote upon her tablets, tell her I cannot, and handed them to Bourjeu, who was talking with a marquee. Bourjeu, completely taken aback, blurted out the important information by asking, Have you not told Mademoiselle de Saint-Omar, then, that we are to leave for England tomorrow? Tomorrow, exclaimed the marquee and his sister in the same breath, Honorine burst into a violent fit of weeping, a very unusual demonstration on her part, for she had shed few tears in her short and happy life. Sylvie, distressed beyond measure, glanced up imploringly at Bourjeu, as though to petition him to try to pacify her. The marquee comprehended the look, and probably deeming the musician incompetent to such a task, seated himself beside his sister and said, Why, Honorine, you have not remembered the new pleasure in store for you. Think how much you will enjoy corresponding with Mademoiselle, Sylvie. I expect to find you marring paper in the most indefatigable manner. Honorine smiled through her tears and sobbed out, You will write to me, Sylvie, will you not? Sylvie traced the word often upon her tablets. And you will break her back very soon, Monsieur Bourjeu, will you not? asked the weeping girl. As soon as you can send us word that France is sufficiently peaceful and prosperous to welcome her singing birds back, replied Bourjeu. Sylvie pointed to the clock and, wiping away the tears that still sparkled upon Honorine's lashes, embraced her fervently, gently unclasped the hands that clung about her own neck, bowed to the marquee, and was out of the room before Maître Bourjeu could make his adieu. The host followed and handed her into the carriage, but his lips were mute as hers. The next morning, Ursule and Sylvie, Maître Bourjeu and his new valet, Matayu, were on their way to London. A few days more, and Sylvie's parents and her devoted friend were gladdened by letters. The travellers had arrived in safety. The company of Monsieur Le Grand was on the eve of its first dreaded appearance before a coldly critical English audience. The next letter was from Ursule and gave an account of Sylvie's brilliant debut and of the impression made by Maître Bourjeu's performance of Paganini's wonderful witch dance. This epistle was rapidly succeeded by others of the same character. The youthful songstress soared at once to a high pinnacle. The very singularity of her affliction enlisted unwanted interest, doubled her attraction, and gave transcendent value to her gift. She was styled the mute singer, and the title itself peaked curiosity and encompassed her with a mystery-loving crowd of worshipers. With mingled humility and gratitude, she wrote her mother that, not out of her talent, but of her trial, had sprung her sudden prosperity, and that she was daily mooring more convinced that she owed the favour of the public in large degree to the peculiarity of her privation, as much to the power lost as to the power preserved. Ursule's letter were of a more gossiping character than those of Sylvie. They were fuller of pleasant details and minute descriptions of passing events. But for them, Sylvie's parents might not have known the industry with which their daughter was prosecuting studies unaligned with those of her profession, nor of the attention she received from distinguished sources, nor of the admirers who murmured at her unresponsive insensibility, nor of Maître Bourgeois's vexation at the persecution of some determined suitors, nor of the summary manner in which he extinguished their aspirations. Sylvie, in her letters, never touched upon these subjects and wrote little of herself. She described the places they visited and often dwelt upon the books she read, but always spoke briefly of her public appearances and the tokens of approbation lavished upon her. Honoreen often visited Madame de La Roche, accompanied by her brother, and it soon became a matter of course for them to peruse Ursule's letters as well as those of Sylvie to her parents. Dr. Souvestre was also a frequent guest in the Rue de Anglouin, and the privilege of reading the letters of the travelers was accorded to him also. The Marquis not only made the acquaintance of the young physician whom he regarded as Sylvie's future husband, but by his patronage and friendship was instrumental in greatly extending his practice and placing him in an enviable social position, one which the noblemen believed Sylvie would hear after share, and sharing would assuredly grace. Before long the health of Monsieur de La Roche was sufficiently restored for him to enter upon his duties as secretary to Count de Maraux. The Count was the possessor of large estates in different parts of France, and his secretary had the charge of all his correspondents in regard to this property. Everard de La Roche, although he fully appreciated, we may say gloried, in the importance of his new office, discharged his duties with a punctuality and prudence which could hardly have been expected from one who had passed his life in pursuing phantoms. But the severe lessons taught him through the misfortunes he had brought upon himself by his sanguine restlessness had disciplined his mind to distinguish and resist tempting shadows and cling to sober substance. The tree, all blossoms and leaves, was bearing wholesome fruit at last. Month followed month, and Paris, in spite of its provisional government, its insipid republicanism, was not in a sufficiently settled state for Monsieur le Grand to deem return desirable. Besides this, the success of his company in Great Britain was unabated. It was now November, and the Corps of Monsieur le Grand, after making the tour of England, Scotland and Ireland, came back to London to embark for Hamburg with the intention of visiting Germany. The year for which the young vocalist was engaged had nearly expired before the leader announced that he proposed to return to Paris. The affection Bourgeau and Ursul experienced for Sylvie had not only steadily increased, but their mutual attraction to that magnetic centre had drawn them towards each other. When they were forced to contemplate resuming the olden routine of their existence in Paris, Bourgeau thought with a sigh of his lonely bachelor life. His mother had died during his absence, and began to reflect that, painful as separation from Sylvie would be, he would miss even more his daily intercourse with Ursul, his pleasant chats with her, the little attentions which it seemed natural for each other to pay to or receive from the other. Then he gravely asked himself whether it was absolutely needful that this separation should take place. He had no sooner propounded that important question to himself than, without preface, premeditation, or ceremony, he asked it of her. Why should we two separate? I see no reason that renders it imperative. Do you see any? He asked abruptly. Ursul was too amazed to reply. Bourgeau repeated the question in an authoritative voice as though commanding an answer. His tone startled Ursul into a laconic, no. That's right, I like a direct answer, and I like it all the better for being short, continued Bourgeau. We too have had many happy hours together during the last year. I enjoy your society. You do not seem to dislike mine. Do you think you would necessarily tire of me if you had more of my company? The no, this time was given more promptly as if there could be a lack of courtesy in hesitation. Soon after we reach Paris then, I will look out for lodgings that will suit both. I never purchased a piece of jewelry in my life, but I mean to buy a wedding ring. If you will promise to let me put it upon your finger, will you? This time Ursul varied her negatives by an affirmative, but she did not add another word. I thought you would say yes, I would not have asked you, replied Bourgeau, diving his fingers into his snuffbox as eagerly as though he expected to find the proposed wedding ring at its bottom. Then he added, without any attempt at playing the lover, I confess I am glad not to be mistaken in supposing that you did not dislike me, rough and crabbed as I am. I hope you are glad that I broach the subject of our remaining together. Now, as we have neither father nor mother nor relatives, nor anyone to care for us but Sylvie, let us dutifully ask her consent. Sylvie very merrily expressed her approval of the anticipated union, and delighted Ursul by begging to be allowed to officiate as bridesmaid. For Ursul, at her time of life, to trust her happiness in the hands of one so continually irascible and domineering as Bourgeau may seem a venturesome step. But there is a class of woman who positively enjoyed being ruled. Of course they deny it to themselves and to others, but a loving tyrant is always their hero. Then Maitre Bourgeau's temper was by no means as violent as when we first made his acquaintance. It had been calmed down by the tenderness developed in his intercourse with Sylvie by the compassionate gentleness which her patient sufferings and humble endurance of bitter disappointments inspired by the softening influence of her example upon his character. End of chapter 18