He received the welcome of a king.  The two men he had seen earlier in the day advanced ceremoniously and informed him that the honour of his presence was something they had never hoped for; that—­as news flies swiftly in villages—­they had heard he was at Alt-Aussee; they had recognized the great Marco Davos on the road.  These statements were delivered with exaggerated courtesy, though possibly sincere.  The elder of the pair was white-whiskered, very tall and spare, his expression a sadly vague one.  It was her father.  The other an antique person, a roly-poly fellow who chuckled and quavered, was her uncle.  Davos sat in a drawing-room containing a grand pianoforte, a few chairs, and couches.  The floor was stained, and when a cluster of lights was brought by the uncle, he noticed that only Chopin portraits hung on the walls.  He apologized for his intrusion—­the music had lured him from the highroad.

“We are very musical,” said the father.

“I should say so,” reiterated his brother-in-law.

“Musical!” echoed Davos.  “Do you call it by such an everyday phrase?  I heard the playing of a marvellous poet a moment ago.”  The two men looked shyly at each other.  She entered.  He was formally presented.

“Monsieur Davos, this is Constantia Grabowska, my daughter.  My name is Joseph Grabowski; my late wife’s brother, Monsieur Pelletier.”  Davos was puzzled by the name, Constantia Grabowska!  She sat before him, dressed in black silk with crinoline; two dainty curls hung over her ears; her profile, her colouring, were slightly Oriental, and in her nebulous gray eyes with their greenish light there was eternal youth.  Constantia!  Polish.  And how she played Chopin—­ah! it came to him before he had finished his apologies.

“You are named after Chopin’s first love,” he ejaculated.  “Pardon the liberty.”  She answered him in her grave, measured contralto.

“Constantia Gladowska was my grandmother.”  The playing, the portraits, were now explained.  A lover of the Polish composer, Davos knew every incident of his biography.

“I am the son of that Joseph Grabowski, the Warsaw merchant who married the soprano singer, Constantia Gladowska, in 1832,” said the father, smilingly.  “My father became blind.”

“Chopin’s Ideal!” exclaimed Marco.  He was under the spell of the girl’s beauty and music.  He almost stared at her, for the knowledge that she was a great artiste, perhaps greater than himself, rather dampened his passion.  She was adorable as she returned without coquetry his ardent gaze; but she was—­he had to admit it—­a rival.  This composite feeling he inwardly wrestled with as the conversation placidly proceeded.  They only spoke of Poland, of Chopin.  Once the name of Emilia Plater, the Polish Joan of Arc, was mentioned—­she, too, was a distant connection.  The young pianist hinted that more music would be agreeable, but there was no response.  He was quite alone with Constantia, and they talked of Poland’s tone-poet.  She knew much more of Chopin than he did, and she recited Mickiewicz’s patriotic poems with incomparable verve.