She sang for him, without accompaniment, songs which she said she reserved from the public for her dearest friends alone. It was a curious collection of unknown things: strange, wild songs of the Sicilian peasants, weird, lonesome songs of Siberian slaves; and sad, earthy songs from the Hebrides, all unwritten, and passed down by tradition. “These songs are old; God knows how old,” she would say. “They are ageless, cosmic things. That is why they are so amusing.” “One must confess,” thought Ventrillon, “that it is better than hearing Pinettre squeal ‘O Sole mio!’ at the Closerie. And to think that I am hearing it all free! Evidently I was born for this.” They worked in the music room, and whenever she sang she opened the windows, all of which faced the street. “It is for my children,” she would say, “the people of Paris. Sometimes they gather in crowds beneath my windows, and it is touching to hear their applause. You will not envy them the crumbs of your feast.” On the last day Ventrillon placed a slender high light down the length of the nose, and heightened the green reflection of her gown under the curve of the chin. With these two strokes the portrait sprang into solidity and completion. Ventrillon stood back, astonished. “_Nom de dieu!_” he swore, completely forgetting how far he had risen out of the atmosphere of the Closerie des Lilas. “I shall not only startle the natives, but, _ma foi_, I have startled myself!” “Is it really like that!” cried the Belletaille, eagerly, and ran to the easel. But she restrained herself, covering her eyes with her hands. “No, I shall not look! My children must see me when I look upon it for the first time at Volland’s. I must give them that privilege. But I know that you have done me a great portrait. I said at the beginning that you had the eyes. I shall sing for you. I shall sing for you a song I almost never sing. It was written for me by Rimsky-Korsakof himself. Even Rimsky had no copy. ‘It is for you alone,’ he said to me; but, my friend, I shall sing it for you!” She opened the windows, and went to stand in the curve of her piano. “Ah,” she said, “but this song is _bitter_! Bitter, bitter. You will hear how bitter it is.” She thrust one bony knee forward, and clasped her long thin hands upon her head, crushing her hair down into her eyes. Her rouged lips taut, she sang through her teeth, and her eyes became malignant slits under her hair. Slowly, in the deepest, the most troubling tones of all her extraordinary range, she began: “Tr-r-r-r-a...................... la! La! Tr-r-r-r-a...................... la! La! I will not allow my heart to br-reak! Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la!” She stopped. “Now, do you hear? Is it not _bitter_? Is there anything else so bitter in all the world? But wait until you hear the A in altissimo at the end! That is the bitterest of all. I give it my full voice, and it is terrible. You will never hear anything like it as long as you live. Never! Listen!