"Ah!" he said. "I envy you your power. With music like that one can
almost imagine that life is what one would wish it to be."
She did not answer, but she wandered off into another air--a slumber
song.
"The Schlummerlied," said De Chauxville softly. "It almost has the power
to send a sorrow to sleep."
This time she answered him--possibly because he had not looked at her.
"Such never sleep," she said.
"Do you know that, too?" he asked, not in a tone that wanted reply.
She made no answer.
"I am sorry," he went on. "For me it is different, I am a man. I have
man's work to do. I can occupy myself with ambition. At all events, I
have a man's privilege of nursing revenge."
He saw her eyes light up, her breast heave with a sudden sigh. Something
like a smile wavered for a moment beneath his waxed mustache.
Catrina's fingers, supple and strong, struck in great chords the air of
a gloomy march from the half-forgotten muse of some monastic composer.
While she played, Claude de Chauxville proceeded with his delicate touch
to play on the hidden chords of an untamed heart.
"A man's privilege," he repeated musingly.
"Need it be such?" she asked.
For the first time his eyes met hers.
"Not necessarily," he answered, and her eyes dropped before his narrow
gaze.
He sat back in his chair, content for the moment with the progress he
had made.
Pages:
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232