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Page 116

"When did you leave the Siebensternstrasse?"

"But now."

"And he still lives?"

"Ja, Fraulein, and asks for you."

Now suddenly fell away from the girl all pride, all fear, all
that was personal and small and frightened, before the reality of
death. She rose, as women by divine gift do rise, to the crisis;
ceased trembling, got her hat and coat and her shabby gloves and
joined the sentry again. Another moment's delay--to secure the Le
Grande's address from Monia. Then out into the night, Harmony to
the Siebensternstrasse, the tall soldier to find the dancer at
her hotel, or failing that, at the Ronacher Music-Hall.

Harmony took a taxicab--nothing must be spared now--bribed the
chauffeur to greater speed, arrived at the house and ran across
the garden, still tearless, up the stairs, past Rosa on the upper
flight, and rang the bell.

Marie admitted her with only a little gasp of surprise. There was
nothing to warn Peter. One moment he sat by the bed, watch in
hand, alone, drear, tragic-eyed. The next he had glanced up, saw
Harmony and went white, holding to the back of his chair. Their
eyes met, agony and hope in them, love and death, rapture and
bitterness. In Harmony's, pleading, promise, something of doubt;
in Peter's, only yearning, as of empty arms. Then Harmony dared
to look at the bed and fell on her knees in a storm of grief
beside it. Peter bent over and gently stroked her hair.

Le Grande was singing; the boxes were full. In the body of the
immense theater waiters scurried back and forward among the
tables. Everywhere was the clatter of silver and steel on
porcelain, the clink of glasses. Smoke was everywhere--pipes,
cigars, cigarettes. Women smoked between bites at the tables,
using small paper or silver mouthpieces, even a gold one shone
here and there. Men walked up and down among the diners, spraying
the air with chemicals to clear it. At a table just below the
stage sat the red-bearded Dozent with the lady of the photograph.
They were drinking cheap native wines and were very happy.

From the height of his worldly wisdom he was explaining the
people to her.

"In the box--don't stare, Liebchen, he looks--is the princeling I
have told you of. Roses, of course. Last night it was orchids."

"Last night! Were you here?" He coughed.

"I have been told, Liebchen. Each night he sits there, and when
she finishes her song he rises in the box, kisses the flowers and
tosses them to her."

"Shameless! Is she so beautiful?"

"No. But you shall see. She comes."

Le Grande was very popular. She occupied the best place on the
program; and because she sang in American, which is not exactly
English and more difficult to understand, her songs were
considered exceedingly risque. As a matter of fact they were
merely ragtime melodies, with a lilt to them that caught the
Viennese fancy, accustomed to German sentinental ditties and the
artificial forms of grand opera. And there was another reason for
her success. She carried with her a chorus of a dozen
pickaninnies.

In Austria darkies were as rare as cats, and there were no cats!
So the little chorus had made good.

Each day she walked in the Prater, ermine from head to foot, and
behind her two by two trailed twelve little Southern darkies in
red-velvet coats and caps, grinning sociably. When she drove a
pair sat on the boot.

Her voice was strong, not sweet, spoiled by years of singing
against dishes and bottles in smoky music halls; spoiled by
cigarettes and absinthe and foreign cocktails that resembled
their American prototypes as the night resembles the day.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Mon 29th Dec 2025, 16:36

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart