"Much better, mother. You can't think how you've improved at it this
week."
"Any mistakes?"
"The harlequin and columbine seemed a little jerky. But your hands
were tired, I know."
"Never mind that: they mustn't be tired and it's got to be perfect.
We'll try them again."
She was about to drop the corner of the sheet when the listener sprang
out towards the window, leaping with bare feet over the graves and
waving his flageolet wildly.
"Ah, no--no, madame!" he cried. "Wait one moment, the littlest, and I
shall inspire you."
"Whoever is that?" cried the woman's voice at the window.
The youth below faced round on the intruder. He was white in the face
and had wanted to run, but mastered his voice and enquired gruffly--
"Who the devil are you?"
"I? I am an artist, and as such I salute madame and monsieur her son.
She is greater artist than I, but I shall help her. They shall dance
better this time, her harlequin and columbine. Why? Because they shall
dance to my music--the music that I shall make here, on this spot,
under the stars.
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