"I must," said Aaron. "But I can do it somewhere else."
"No. If you play for the public, you must have your earnings. When you play for me, it is different."
"Of course," said Manfredi. "Every man must have his wage. I have mine from the Italian government"
After a while, Aaron asked the Marchesa if she would sing.
"Shall I?" she said.
"Yes, do."
"Then I will sing alone first, to let you see what you think of it—I shall be like Trilby—I won't say like Yvette Guilbert, because I daren't. So I will be like Trilby, and sing a little French song. Though not Malbrouck, and without a Svengali to keep me in tune."
She went near the door, and stood with her hands by her side. There was something wistful, almost pathetic now, in her elegance.
"Derrière chez mon père
Vole vole mon coeur, vole!
Derrière chez mon père
Il y a un pommier doux.
Tout doux, et iou
Et iou, tout doux.
Il y a un pommier doux.
Trois belles princesses
Vole vole mon coeur, vole!
Trois belles princesses
Sont assis dessous.
Tout doux, et iou
Et iou, tout doux.
Sont assis dessous."
She had a beautiful, strong, sweet voice. But it was faltering, stumbling and sometimes it seemed to drop almost to speech. After three verses she faltered to an end, bitterly chagrined.
"No," she said. "It's no good. I can't sing." And she dropped in her chair.
"A lovely little tune," said Aaron. "Haven't you got the music?"
