"Is champagne the cure for a heartache, then, _Maestro_?"
Baroni's eyes grew suddenly sad.
"Ah, my dear, only death--or a great love--can heal the wound that lies
in the heart," he answered gently. He paused, then resumed crisply:
"But, meanwhile, we haf to live--and _prima donnas_ haf to sing.
So . . . the little glass of wine in my room, is it not?"
He tucked her arm within his, patting her hand paternally, and led her
into his own sanctum, where he settled her comfortably in a big
easy-chair beside the fire, and poured her out a glass of wine,
watching her sip it with a glow of satisfaction in his eyes.
"That goes better, _hein_? This Olga--she had not reflected
sufficiently. It was too late for the truth to do good; it could only
pain and grieve you."
"Yes," said Diana. "It is too late now. . . . I've paid for my
ignorance with my happiness--and Max's," she added in a lower tone.
She looked across at Baroni with sudden resentment. "And you--_you
knew_!" she continued. "Why didn't you tell me? . . . Oh, but I can
guess!"--scornfully. "It suited your purpose for me to quarrel with my
husband; it brought me back to the concert platform. My happiness
counted for nothing--against that!"
Baroni regarded her patiently.
"And do you regret it? Would you be willing, now, to give up your
career as a _prima donna_--and all that it means?"
A vision rose up before Diana of what life would be denuded of the
glamour and excitement, the perpetual triumphs, the thrilling sense of
power her singing gave her--the dull, flat monotony of it, and she
caught her breath sharply in instinctive recoil.
Pages:
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311