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"I'd think of Djenan-el-Maqui, and wish I was a composer instead of a singer for a fifth of a minute." "Oh!" she said reproachfully. "Only a fifth!" "I know. It wasn't long. But you see I'm born to sing, so I'm bound to love it more than anything else. Making a noise oh, it's rare!" He opened his mouth and ran up a scale to the high A. "I can get there pretty well now, don't you think?"
In Algeria, Crayford had devoted most of his attention to this act, which he had said "wanted a lot of doing to." He had "made" the whole of it "over." Charmian remembered now very well the long discussions which had taken place at Djenan-el-Maqui about this act. One discussion stood out from the rest at this moment. She almost felt the heat brooding over the far-off land.
"It is terribly late. Stay in bed to-morrow. Don't get up early. Bonne nuit." "Bonne nuit, madame." On the following day she received a note from Alston. "DEAR MRS. CHARMIAN, You are a wonder. No one on earth could have managed him better. You might have known him from the cradle yours, of course, not his! I'm taking him around to-day. He wants to go to Djenan-el-Maqui, I can see that.
As to Jacques Sennier, he left a crevasse in the life at Djenan-el-Maqui. It had been a dangerous experience for Charmian, the associating in intimacy with the little famous man. Her secret ambitions were irritated almost to the point of nervous exasperation. But she only knew it now that he was gone. Madame Sennier had frightened her. "Mais, ma chère, ce n'est pas sérieux!"
When Charmian arrived at Djenan-el-Maqui she found Claude in the little dining-room with Caroline, who was seated beside him on a chair, leaning her lemon-colored chin upon the table, and gazing with pathetic eyes at the cold chicken he was eating. "O Claude!" she said, as he looked round. "Such a day! Well?"
Gillier was once more in Algeria. He had never given them a sign of life since he had tried to buy back his libretto from them. Now he wrote formally, saying he was paying a short visit to his family, and asking permission to call at Djenan-el-Maqui at any hour that would suit them. His note was addressed to Claude, who at once showed it to Charmian. "Of course we must let him come," Claude said.
She had heard it all at Djenan-el-Maqui, on the piano, sung by Alston and hummed by Claude. She had felt it, sometimes deeply on nights of excitement, when Claude had played till the stars were fading.
Only the British Vice-Consul and his wife remained, and they lived a good way out in the country. Since May few people had come to disturb the peace of Djenan-el-Maqui. Charmian dwelt in a strange and sun-smitten isolation. She was very much alone.
"This," said Charmian to herself, "is my idea of Hell." She felt that she was being punished for every sin, however tiny, that she had ever committed. She longed to creep away and hide. She thought of all she had done to bring about the opera, of the flight from England, of the life at Djenan-el-Maqui, of the grand hopes that had lived in the little white house above the sea.
He believed profoundly in names. But he believed also in "new blood," and was for ever on the look-out for it. He felt pretty sure he had found "new blood" at Djenan-el-Maqui. But Claude must trust him, bow to him, be ready to follow his lead of a long experience if he was to do anything with Claude's work. Great names he let alone. They had captured the public and had to be trusted.
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