But--and at
the thought he breathed quickly, and raised his shoulders with a
touch of pride--he could tell her in his own way; after his own
fashion he could express what he felt better even than those other
men could tell what they feel--these men for whose amusement he
performed nightly, to whom it was granted to sit at her side, who
spoke the language of her class and of her own people. Edouard was
not given to analyzing his emotions; like the music of his Tzigane
ancestors, they came to him sweeping every chord in his nature,
beating rapidly to the time of the Schardash, or with the fitfulness
of the gypsy folksongs sinking his spirits into melancholy. So he did
not stop to question why this one face so suddenly inspired him; he
only knew that he felt grateful, that he was impatient to pay his
tribute of admiration, that he was glad he was an artist who could
give his feelings voice.
In the long programme of selected airs he remembered that there was
one which would give him this chance to speak, in the playing of
which he could put all his skill and all his soul, an air which
carried with it infinite sadness and the touch of a caress.
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