Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat
low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful
curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and
imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of
the Chopin Impromptu.
Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa
corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had
glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song,
and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing.
The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and
fantastic--turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The
shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the
night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in
the silence of the upper air.
Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when
strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take
her departure. "May I come again, Mademoiselle?" she asked at the
threshold.
"Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are
dark; don't stumble."
Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the
floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with
tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the
envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer.