The glasses ceased clinking; sturdy
citizens forgot their steak and beer for a moment and listened,
knife and fork poised. Under the table the Dozent's hand pressed
its captive affectionately, his eyes no longer on Le Grande, but
on the woman across, his sweetheart, she who would be mother of
his children. The words meant little to the audience; the rich,
rolling Southern lullaby held them rapt:--
"Doan ye Cry, mah honey--
Doan ye weep no mo',
Mammy's gwine to hold her baby,
All de udder black trash sleepin' on the flo',"
The little darkies swayed; the singer swayed, empty arms cradled.
She picked the tiniest darky up and held him, woolly head against
her breast, and crooned to him, rocking on her jeweled heels. The
crowd applauded; the man in the box kissed his flowers and flung
them. Glasses and dishes clinked again.
The Dozent bent across the table.
"Some day--" he said.
The girl blushed.
Le Grande made her way into the wings, surrounded by her little
troupe. A motherly colored woman took them, shooed them off,
rounded them up like a flock of chickens.
And there in the wings, grimly impassive, stood a private soldier
of the old Franz Josef, blocking the door to her dressing room.
For a moment gold dress and dark blue-gray uniform confronted
each other. Then the sentry touched his cap.
"Madam," he said, "the child is in the Riebensternstrasse and
to-night he dies."
"What child?" Her arms were full of flowers.
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