Not beauty; she had no true beauty; it was, essentially, the versatile face of the Jewess; but what a vehicle for every passion; and, preëminently, for the passion of love.—Ah, and she could draw upon experience, Sarah! In my own monde, how many men have I not known to whom she granted her favours!'
Poor old lady. How terribly out of key she was! And did she not guess as much from the look that drifted down upon her from Dick's cold eyes as he leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head? But perhaps Dick, still, was not listening to her. He had cared for the music as much as she herself had; more, of course, for he was so much deeper than she was. And had he not begun to see, too, something of what she saw in Marthe Ludérac? What a triumph that would be! But the 'Ché faro' still made her feel miserable. She joined Mademoiselle Ludérac, who stood beside her harp.
'I can't tell you how I loved it,' she said.
Mademoiselle Ludérac smiled. 'I saw that you loved it.—Some day you must hear César Franck's 'Psyché,' she said.
'Is it anything like the Gluck?'
'There is a resemblance; yes; as if of colour.'
'What you said: something celestial?'
'Yes. Something celestial. Only in the "Psyché" there is so much more of that quality.'
'But it's dreadfully sad,' said Jill, after a moment, standing and watching Mademoiselle Ludérac adjust, here and there, a string of her instrument. 'The
