ial forms of grand opera. And there was another
reason for her success. She carried with her a chorus of a dozen
pickaninnies.

In Austria darkies were as rare as cats, and there were no cats! So the
little chorus had made good.

Each day she walked in the Prater, ermine from head to foot, and behind
her two by two trailed twelve little Southern darkies in red-velvet
coats and caps, grinning sociably. When she drove a pair sat on the
boot.

Her voice was strong, not sweet, spoiled by years of singing against
dishes and bottles in smoky music halls; spoiled by cigarettes and
absinthe and foreign cocktails that resembled their American prototypes
as the night resembles the day.

She wore the gold dress, decolletee, slashed to the knee over
rhinestone-spangled stockings. And back of her trailed the twelve little
darkies.

She sang "Dixie," of course, and the "Old Folks at Home"; then a ragtime
medley, with the chorus showing rows of white teeth and clogging with
all their short legs. Le Grande danced to that, a whirling, nimble
dance. The little rhinestones on her stockings flashed; her opulent
bosom quivered. The Dozent, eyes on the dancer, squeezed his companion's
hand.

"I love thee!" he whispered, rather flushed.

And then she sang "Doan ye cry, mah honey." Her voice, rather coarse but
melodious, lent itself to the negro rhythm, the swing and lilt of the
lullaby. The little darkies, eyes rolling, preternaturally solemn,
linked arms and swayed rhythmically, right, left, right, left. 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.

L