If he had sung standing on the platform of a brightly lit concert hall
half the charm would have vanished in that distraction which the
personality of a singer creates.
In the illusion of his surroundings the man himself did not exist.
There was only the voice--the singer. Hungarian folk-songs that fired
her blood and made her restless with strange longings; "_La vie est
vaine_," eternally sweet and haunting; then some wickedly witty song of
the _cafes_, and melodies of Gounod full of infinite charm. Last of
all came always "_Le Reve_," in which Emile and Vladimir joined as if
it were some National Anthem, and which left her quivering with
excitement.
CHAPTER VII
"There would no man do for your sake, I think,
What I would have done for the least word said;
I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink--
Broken it up for your daily bread."
SWINBURNE.
When the week of dreams and rest was over she went back to the
Hippodrome with somewhat of relief in her feelings.
At least the work prevented her from thinking.
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