Count Styvens belonged to the foreign
diplomacy and was very particular, and no one had infringed on his
privacy since the little affair in the Brussels music hall. That left
only Jean Perliez, who was merely sincere and pathetic; the public did
not want to read that kind of thing! So much for the little
journalist.
Countess Styvens was spending a month in Paris, staying at the
Legation with the Princess de Bernecourt, who always had a suite ready
for her. There was to be a grand opening ceremony of the Opera season,
and for many years the Styvens had never missed the first nights of
the Opera or the Comedie-Francaise.
One evening at dinner the conversation turned upon music, and a guest
regretted the mechanical performance of the musical prodigies at the
Conservatoire.
"It gives them a certain amount of cleverness, or technique, or
whatever you like to call it, but there is no flair of the ideal, and
often no important personality."
"I know a young artist," said Albert Styvens, "who plays with her
whole soul, and I, who really love music, find her far ahead of all
your prodigies."
Almost a sensation was produced among the guests.
The Countess said with her sweet smile, "I see that they tease you
here as well as at Brussels."
"That does not affect me, mother, you see; I remain faithful to my
ideal."
"Never mind, tell us the name of this new discovery."
"Her name is Esperance Darbois," said Albert rising, resting his two
hands on the table.
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