A Top-Floor Idyl Part 30

When she finished, she turned a little on the revolving stool and looked at me, her head a little inclined to one side, her lips smiling at me, for she could not but know how splendidly she had sung.

"Well, Dave," she asked, "are you pleased?"

"My dear Frances," I answered, "a king of Bavaria had operas performed for himself alone, and, likewise, I have had a treat that might have enraptured thousands. I am a monarch basking in luxury. No, after all I am the same old Dave who has found a treasure by the wayside and is gloating over it. That's what I'm doing. If I knew anything about music, I might, perhaps, tell you what it is that I find to admire in your singing, but I can only say I am impressed by something that leaves me wondering and gives me a keen delight I cannot put in words."

"I'm so glad, Dave!" she exclaimed. "I shall always sing to you as much as you like. I am thankful to be able to give you pleasure."

Pleasure, forsooth! She can give me everything a man longs for in the world! Sweetness, beauty, melody are all in her power of bestowal! But I should be thankful for her affection and grateful for my privileges as a trusted friend. May I never by any folly forfeit them!

And so the winter came again, and the amenities of the holidays and some joyous little dinners with Frieda. I went one day to call on Richetti, and the _maestro_ threw himself upon me and clasped me in his arms.

"_Amico carissimo!_ It is a delight to see you! Everywhere I hear of you as an author _pregiatissimo_, but you go not out into the world where thousands are dying to know you! About _la signora_! What shall I say!

It was a day to be marked with a white stone when you brought her to me.

We are giving back to the world a pearl of great price. She has the voice, _amico mio_, and she has the natural method! But more than all else her voice is _simpatica_, it throbs and thrills, it enlists love and affection and the desire to listen forever. At her feet the world will kneel some day. She will be mentioned in the same breath as our greatest _prime donne_. In three weeks I give my concert. Every one will be there. I have given hints to many, made much mystery. She will come out in all her beauty, dressed in a very fine gown, the last on the programme, so that she will be a revelation. People will go away and clamor at her greatness. I am Richetti! I know what I speak of!"

In his enthusiasm he slapped me severely on the back, and I hurried home.

"Frances!" I exclaimed, breathlessly. "Richetti is getting crazy about you. He bubbles over with enthusiasm. Moreover, Jamieson says he is a wise old guy. The _maestro_ says you must have a very fine gown to wear at the concert. Where is the gown?"

She cast her eyes down at the floor.

"I--I suppose I will manage to----"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I told her, severely. "It is a most important matter which we have inexcusably neglected. Come out with me at once and we will buy one."

"Oh, no, Dave, I was thinking that I have a very nice white lace gown I brought from Paris when I first came over, which could----"

"You have no business to think such things. Who is that coming up the stairs? h.e.l.lo, always on hand when you are most needed, Frieda. I want you to go at once with Frances to the most expensive shop on Fifth Avenue and buy her a concert gown. Here are a hundred dollars."

"That would buy two sleeves and maybe a few flounces," said Frieda, quietly.

"Here's a hundred more which you can leave on deposit. I will see to the balance. Not a word, Frances. Remember that it must be a very fine gown.

Richetti says so, I didn't suggest it to him. He knows what's needed.

You can pay me back when you are making thousands. Don't argue, but go at once!"

"You're a nasty tempered old bully," Frieda informed me, her eyes twinkling behind her spectacles.

"Good!" I exclaimed. "You're always saying that I don't a.s.sert myself enough. Thank goodness, I'm getting cured of that."

So, presently, they went away and I was left alone. Some letters were on my desk. One of them was from Gordon and I seized it eagerly. It read as follows:

"_Dear old boy_:

"As you suggested in your last letters I've had enquiries made at the war department. Paul Dupont of the 30th dragoons, a violinist by profession and a reservist called from New York, aged 31, was killed at the battle of the Marne. I thought I'd find out about his old people, if I could. Just heard they abandoned their place before it was destroyed and are living with a daughter near Suresnes. I sent them a bit of money, telling them it came from their daughter-in-law. Thought it might please Madame Dupont, but don't tell her. Am still driving one of those gasolene wheelbarrows. We're seeing some hard times. I sometimes feel awfully sorry at what happened. S.

was a fine girl, and I a fool. Glad to hear that 'Land o' Love'

is making a killing.

"Ever your old pal,

"GORDON."

I was glad enough, in a melancholy way, to receive this piece of news.

Frances, while never doubting that her husband was dead, has never had any positive a.s.surance of the fact. I'll not mention it just now, for it wouldn't do to awaken her memories before the concert. Time has reconciled her a little to her loss, I think, and it would be a shame to disturb her.

Well, there can be no doubt about it. She is entirely free. It is not possible that such beauty and sweetness as hers shall nevermore know love. This concert surely means the beginning of a separation which must come sooner or later. Madame Francesca, as she will be called, can no longer keep on living in this frittering brownstone relic of better days. Her singing will probably take her away from us. There may be concerts and even operatic engagements, who knows? And I shall be left here with the old calabash and my rickety typewriter. Ye G.o.ds! What an outlook! I wonder whether it would not be wise for me to go to Fiji or Yokohama or the Aleutian Islands? I shall get the horrors here all alone. I'm too clumsy for them ever to take me as an ambulance driver in France, but, perhaps, they would let me serve as an orderly in the hospitals. I'll have to think of it!

CHAPTER XXI

THE CONCERT

And so the short weeks went by and the fateful evening came. Frieda had spent the whole afternoon with Frances. The gown, it appeared, had come in plenty of time. My formal orders had, of course, been disobeyed, for women, while they often bow gracefully to a mere man's edicts, always go off and do as they jolly well please. In a sidestreet, not more than a block and a half from the Avenue, our stout friend had unearthed a purveyor of feminine adornment who, she explained to me, was a positive worker of spells when it came to dressing a woman. Also, she was moderate in her prices. The gown cost one hundred and sixty-five dollars and the amount of change Frieda cascaded in my lap made me feel as if I owned a bank. I expressed disbelief in the miraculous dressmaker and made somber prophecies as to the outcome, all of which she treated with contempt. At six o'clock they went off to her flat, where she had prepared the light refection that would insure prompt digestion and easy breathing. I was instructed to dine where I pleased.

At seven thirty-five came a knock at my door. It was Frieda.

"Dave," she said, "if you're having trouble with that white tie, we'll fix it for you in a minute. Meanwhile, you're permitted to come in the other room. She's got the dress on, I hooked it myself and did her hair."

I followed her, eagerly. Both gaslights were flaming brightly. Eulalie was circling around Frances, totally incapacitated by admiration. The back was turned to me and the arms raised as she gave some mysterious touch to the waves above her temples, but she turned at once and stood before me, happily, with arms now held down and palms turned towards me, in an att.i.tude of graceful abandonment.

"Here's your gown, Dave," she said. "From head to foot you are responsible, slippers and all."

I refuse to go to Frieda for a description of it. I care nothing about displaying my ignorance and will say at once that I have not the slightest idea of what the materials were. All I know is that she looked like beauty and grace incarnate. The lily might be no better for the gilding, but it displayed her charm to the full. The beautiful arms were bare and the fair neck modestly displayed.

"Let me rub my eyes," I said, "it is another dream come to me."

"_Elle est belle comme un amour!_" clamored Eulalie.

She was indeed beautiful as a love, as the most splendid, honest, faithful love ever born in a human heart.

And then she came to me and put up her hands and seized upon my recalcitrant tie and gave it a twist and a turn, smiling at me the while.

"You look ever so well, David," she told me. "You need take so little trouble to make yourself look as young in body as you are in heart.

You'll be but forty-two next birthday and yet seem to delight in pretending you're such an old fellow. Please stay young, Dave, for the sake of all who love you."

Yes, there was a bit of moisture in her eyes as she spoke. She was so near me that I was conscious of her fragrance; I felt that I was within the aura of her sweetness, and my heart was thumping. But she turned away again, after one more rea.s.sured glance at my tie. She began to draw on a long pair of white gloves, as I went back to my room for a few sprays of lily of the valley I had procured for her, which she pinned to her waist. Then she sat down in a chair that looked poorly fitted to bear so charming a burden.

"I needn't be there before nine, David," she told me, "and so there isn't the slightest hurry. Frieda is going home to put on her best and we'll stop for her in the cab."

So the painter of G.o.ddesses and nymphs waddled off, hurriedly, and clattered down the stairs. Frances leaned over Baby Paul's crib, for the longest time, after which she gave Eulalie ever so many instructions as to her charge, while I contemplated her, my nerves all aquiver with thoughts of the coming ordeal.

"You--you look ever so calm, Frances," I told her. "Does--doesn't the idea of standing up there and singing to all those people make you nervous?"

"Not a bit, Dave," she answered, gaily. "But if a little bit of stage fright should come I shall look at you and pretend to myself that I'm just singing for you, and then everything will be all right. It will seem as if we were alone here, and the others won't matter. I feel like singing this very minute and giving you a tiny concert of your own, but it might waken Baby."

She was undeniably happy. With the poor, little, husky voice she had felt a cripple, but the restored organ had changed her in everything but beauty and kindness. She was confident now; the world was opening to her again. She would be able to keep Baby Paul from all suffering such as poverty might have brought, and it gave her an outlook upon the future, wider and more secure.