been well cultivated—Crivelli was my master. You have only to judge for yourself. I do not ask to be engaged by you unless you are satisfied of my competency.”
Rossi rose and opened his piano with a sly glance at his friend, who returned it, and both prepared for a little amusement at the poor lady’s expense.
“Do you prefer accompanying yourself?” he asked.
“No, I can sing better standing, of course.”
“And what am I to have the honour of playing?”
“Choose for yourself—I will refuse if I do not like your selection.”
Here Smith rose, and turning over a pile of music rather maliciously, drew from thence the opera of Robert le Diable.
“See,” said he, “suppose you give us this first great air of Alice, ‘Va! dit-elle.’”
A pleased look stole over the lady’s face, and she assented cheerfully—taking off her bonnet, she stood quietly by the piano. She looked so much handsomer now that her beautiful head was revealed, wreathed with silky coils of black hair, and her eye sparkled with so bright an intelligence that the gentlemen somewhat abated their scorn, and were not so much surprised at the rich quality of the voice which struck upon their ear. There was a little tremor in the first words of that message of the dying mother to her libertine son, but that was soon lost in the earnestness of her own enjoyment of the music; and as she threw her whole soul and voice into the last reiteration of the phrase, “Sa mère priera pour lui!” those two men who had so long made a mere trade of the beautiful art were subdued, enchanted, conquered entirely. There was a decided moisture in Rossi’s blue eyes, and the composer for five whole minutes ceased to remember the existence of the great Hugo Rossini Smith! And the pale, shabbily-dressed woman, who felt their emotion, stood with no feeling of triumph in her breast, but a prayer of thankfulness for her success—she had children at home who wanted bread!
There was a silence of some moments, during which the manager recovered his presence of mind, and remembered that he must now probably drive a bargain.
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“Very finely rendered, madam, I must say—no doubt as to your voice and method—but are you quick at study?”
“I can keep pace with the others, I suppose.”
“We mean to begin by an entirely new opera. Allow me to introduce you to the composer, Mr. Smith, whom doubtless you already know musically, and in my turn may I ask your name?”
The lady blushed and hesitated. The manager laughed.
“Not provided with a nom de guerre, eh? Suppose we say Miss Percy—Maude Percy?”
The name was accepted. There was a long conversation about salary, length of engagement, rehearsals, and other matters of business, and the lady hastened to her humble home with the first act of Joan of Arc in her hand, to work her very hardest, while the two men in the most delighted enjoyment adjourned to an oyster luncheon at Verey’s.
“I tell you what, Smith, that is a lady of rank in disguise!”
“Nonsense, you don’t know her.”
“Well, if she is not, she is to be; so hint the report everywhere.—Your health, Miss Percy, in a bumper of Chablis.”
And whilst the lady walked on full of hope, and the gentlemen drank, poor humble Crowe sat before the open piano with the song she had sung unfolded before him, in a perfect stupor of delight at the sounds which still rang in his ears. Poor fellow, he had come out as a boy prodigy under Rossi’s management, but his voice had failed, his health had failed—worse than all, his spirit had failed; and he was now a sort of secretary—in truth, a servant—to the man who had once made a