The rehearsal went on by fits and starts; some scenes were repeated,

others were left out; at intervals the conductor rapped his desk

nervously and abused somebody, or spoke with great affability to

Margaret, or with the familiarity of long acquaintance to one of the

other singers. Logotheti did not notice these interruptions, for his

sensitiveness was not of the sort that suffers by anything which must

be and therefore should be; it was only the unnecessary that disturbed

him--the tenor's white waistcoat and dangling gold chain. While

Margaret was singing, the illusion was perfect; the rest was a blank,

provided that nothing offended his eyes.

The end was almost reached at last. There was a pause.

'Will you try the trio to-day?' inquired the conductor of Margaret. 'Or

are you tired?' 'Tired?' Margaret laughed. 'Go on, please.' Now Marguerite's part in the trio, where she sings 'Anges pures,'

repeating the refrain three times and each time in a higher key, is one

of the most sustained high pieces ever written for a woman's voice; and

Logotheti, listening, suddenly shut out his illusions and turned

himself into a musical critic, or at least into a judge of singing.

Not a note quavered, from first to last; there was not one sound that

was not as true as pure gold, to the very end, not one tone that was

forced, either, in spite of the almost fantastic pitch of the last

passage.

It is not often that everybody applauds a singer at a rehearsal of

Faust, which has been sung to death for five-and-forty years; but as

the trio ended, and the drums rolled the long knell, there was a shout

of genuine enthusiasm from the little company on the stage.

'Vive la Cordova! Vive la Diva!' yelled the tenor, and he threw up his

pot hat almost to the border lights, quite forgetting to be

indifferent.

'Brava, la Cordova!' boomed the bass, with a tremendous roar.

'Brava, brava, brava!' shouted all the lesser people at the back of the

stage.

Little Madame De Rosa was in hysterics of joy, and embraced everybody

and everything in her way till she came to Margaret and reached the

climax of embracing in a perfect storm of tears. By this time the tenor

and bass were kissing Margaret's gloved hands with fervour and every

one was pressing round her.

Logotheti had come forward and stood a little aloof, waiting for the

excitement to subside. Margaret, surrounded as she was, did not see him

at once, and he watched her quietly. She was the least bit pale and her

eyes were very bright indeed. She was smiling rather vaguely, he

thought, though she was trying to thank everybody for being so pleased,

and Logotheti fancied she was looking for somebody who was not there,

probably for the mysterious 'some one else,' whose existence she had

confessed a few days earlier.




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