himself, and remarked to those who were standing about him, “It’s nothing at all,” said he suddenly, arising from the chair with evident effort.
And in order to show that he had suffered no injury, he went into the middle of the room, and was going to dance; but he tottered, and would have fallen again, had he not been supported.
Everybody felt constrained. All looked at him, and no one spoke. The musician’s glance again lost its vivacity; and, apparently forgetting that anyone was looking, he put his hand to his knee. Suddenly he raised his head, advanced one faltering foot, and, with the same awkward gesture as before, tossed back his hair, and went to a violin-case, and took out the instrument.
“It was nothing at all,” said he again, waving the violin. “Gentlemen, we will have a little music.”
“What a strange face!” said the guests among themselves.
“Maybe there is great talent lurking in that unhappy creature,” said one of them.
“Yes: it’s a sad case—a sad case,” said another.
“What a lovely face! … There is something extraordinary about it,” said Delesof. “Let us have a look at him. …”