I was always sure of hearing something pleasant from Cavanelle across the counter. If he was not mistaking me for the freshest and prettiest girl in New Orleans, he was reserving for me some bit of silk, or lace, or ribbon of a marvelously suited to my , my eyes or my hair! What an innocent, Cavanelle was! How well I knew it and how little I cared! For when he had sold me the confection or bit of dry-goods in question, he always began to talk to me of his sister Mathilde, and then I knew that Cavanelle was an angel.  
I had known him long enough to know why he worked so faithfully, so energetically and without rest—it was because Mathilde had a voice. It was because of her voice that his coats were worn till they were out of fashion 356and almost out at elbows. But for a sister whose voice needed only a little training to rival that of the nightingale, one might do such things without reproach.
 
“You will believe, madame, that I did not know you las’ night at the opera? I remark’ to Mathilde, ‘tiens! Mademoiselle Montreville,’ an’ I only rec’nize my mistake when I finally adjust my opera glass.... I guarantee you will be satisfied, madame. In a year from now you will come an’ thank me for having secu’ you that bargain in a poult-desoie.... Yes, yes; as you say, Tolville was in voice. But,” with a of the narrow shoulders and a smile of that wrinkled the lean olive cheeks beneath the thin beard, “but to hear that cavatina render’ as I have heard it render’ by Mathilde, is another affair! A quality, madame, that moves, that . Perhaps not yet enough volume, but that will accomplish itself with time, when she will become more robus’ in health. It is my intention to sen’ her for the summer to Gran’ ; that good air an’ surf bathing will work miracles. An artiste, voyez vous, it is not to be treated like a human being 357of every day; it needs des petits soins; perfec’ res’ of body an’ mind; good red wine an’ plenty ... oh yes, madame, the stage; that is our intention; but never with my consent in light opera. Patience is what I counsel to Mathilde. A little more stren’th; a little dev’lopment of the chest to give that soupçon of compass which is lacking, an’ gran’ opera is what I for my sister.”
 
I was curious to know Mathilde and to hear her sing; and thought it a great pity that a voice so marvelous as she doubtless should not gain the notice that might prove the step toward the of her ambition. It was such curiosity and a half-formed design or desire to interest myself in her career that prompted me to inform Cavanelle that I should greatly like to meet his sister; and I asked permission to call upon her the following Sunday afternoon.
 
Cavanelle was charmed. He otherwise would not have been Cavanelle. Over and over I was given the most minute directions for finding the house. The green car—or was it the yellow or blue one? I can no longer remember. But it was near Goodchildren 358street, and would I walk this way and turn that way? At the corner was an ice dealer’s. In the middle of the block, their house—one-story; painted yellow; a knocker; a banana tree nodding over the side fence. But indeed, I need not look for the banana tree, the knocker, the number or anything, for if I but turn the corner in the neighborhood of five o’clock I would find him planted at the door awaiting me.
 
And there he was! Cavanelle himself; but seeming to me not himself; apart from the entourage with which I was accustomed to associate him. Every line of his mobile face, every gesture emphasized the welcome which his kind eyes expressed as he me into the small that opened upon the street.
 
“Oh, not that chair, madame! I you. This one, by all means. Thousan’ times more comfortable.”
 
“Mathilde! Strange; my sister was here but an instant ago. Mathilde! Où es tu donc?” Stupid Cavanelle! He did not know when I had already guessed it—that Mathilde had to the adjoining room at my approach, and would appear after a sufficient delay 359to give an appropriate air of ceremony to our meeting.
 
And what a little piece of mortality she was when she did appear! At her I could easily fancy that when she stepped outside of the yellow house, the would lift her from her feet and, given a proper adjustment of the balloon sleeves, gently her in the direction of Goodchildren street, or wherever else she might want to go.
 
Hers was no physique for grand opera—certainly no stage presence; so slender a hold upon life that the least tension might snap it. The voice which could hope to overcome these glaring disadvantages would have to be phenomenal.
 
Mathilde English imperfectly, and with , and was glad to into French. Her speech was languid, unaffectedly so; and her manner was one of indolent ; in this respect offering a striking contrast to that of her brother. Cavanelle seemed unable to rest. Hardly was I seated to his satisfaction than he from the room and soon returned followed by a limping 360old black woman bringing in a sirop d’orgeat and layer cake on a tray.
 
Mathilde’s face showed feeble at her brother’s want of savoir vivre in thus introducing the at so early a stage of my visit.
 
The servant was one of those cheap black women who in the French quarter, who speak Creole in preference to English, and who would rather work in a petit ménage in Goodchildren street for five dollars a month than for fifteen in the fourth district. Her presence, in some unaccountable manner, seemed to reveal to me much of the inner working of this small household. I pictured her early morning visit to the French market, where picayunes were out sparingly, and lagniappes gathered in with avidity.
 
I could see the appointed dinner table; Cavanelle his soup and bouillie in terms; Mathilde toying with her papabotte or chicken-wing, and pouring herself a demi-verre from her very own half-bottle of St. Julien; Pouponne, as they called her, and through habit, and serving them as faithfully as a dog 361through instinct. I wondered if they knew that Pouponne “played the lottery” with every spare “quarter” gathered from a managemen............