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"Hush, hush!" came in energetic sibilants from the princess, who rapped with her Japanese walking-stick for silence. Mr. Sheldam woke up and fumbled the pictures as Rajewski, slowly bending his gold-dust aureole until it almost grazed the keyboard, began with deliberate accents a nocturne.
She began to dislike this cynical old man with his depreciating tales of genius. She knew that her idols often tottered on clay feet, but she hated to be reminded of that disagreeable reality. She went to Monsieur Rajewski and thanked him prettily in her cool new voice, and again the princess nodded approval. "She is chic, your little girl," she confided in her deep tones to Mrs.
"Monsieur Rajewski has consented to play a Chopin nocturne. And here are my two painters, Miss Adams Messieurs Bla and Maugre. They hate each other like the Jesuits and Jansenists of the good old days of Pascal." "She likes to display her learning," grumbled the marquis to Mrs. Sheldam. "That younger man, Bla, swears by divided tones; his neighbour, Maugre, paints in dots.
It annoyed her, she sharply reminded herself, that she could not absolutely saturate herself with the music and the manifold souvenirs of the old hôtel; perhaps this may have been the spell of Rajewski's playing.... The music ceased. A dry voice whispered in her ear: "Great artist, that chap Rajewski. Had to leave Russia once because he wouldn't play the Russian national hymn for the Czar.
The conversation did not move more briskly with the entrance of the Kéroulans. The marquis sullenly gossiped with Mr. Sheldam; the princess withdrew herself to the far end of the room with her two painters. Rajewski was going to a soirée, he informed them, where he would play before a new picture by Carrière, as it was slowly undraped; no one less in rank than a duchess would be present!
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