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THE INTRIGUERS
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Author of "The Doctor of Pimlico," etc.
NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
Copyright, 1921
BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
[Illustration: Madame Quero was startled.]
THE INTRIGUERS
CHAPTER I
The scene was Dean Street, Soho, and this story opens on a snowy
winter night in the January of 1888. The modern improvements of
Shaftesbury Avenue were as yet unmade, and the foreign district of
London had still to be opened up.
A cold north wind was blowing on the few pedestrians whom necessity,
or some urgent obligation, had compelled to tramp the pavements laden
with snow. A few cabs and carriages crawled along the difficult
roadway to the Royalty Theatre, deposited their occupants and crawled
back again.
Nello Corsini, a slim, handsome young Italian, poorly clad, carrying a
violin-case in one hand, wandered down the narrow street, leading with
his other a slender girl of about eighteen, his sister, Anita. She was
dressed as shabbily as he was.
The snow was lying thickly on the streets and roads, but it had ceased
to fall a couple of hours ago. The two itinerant musicians had crept
out at once, as soon as the weather showed signs of mending, from
their poor lodging.
They had only a few pence left. The bitter weather of the last few
days had affected their miserable trade very adversely. It was
necessary they should take advantage of to-night, for the purpose of
scratching together something for the evening meal.
There were lights in several windows. It was, of course, far from
being a wealthy quarter; but there could be none behind those
warm-looking lights, safely sheltered from the cold and wind, so
wretched as these two poor children of fortune who would have to go
supperless to bed if they could not charm a few pence out of the
passers-by.
Nello withdrew his violin from its case with his cold fingers. Just as
he was about to draw the bow across the strings, a carriage passed
down the street on its way to the Royalty Theatre. Inside was a
handsome man verging upon thirty-five. Beside him sat a very beautiful
girl. Nello glanced at them swiftly as they came by. They were
evidently not English, but he could not for the moment guess at their
nationality.
They certainly did not belong to any one of the Latin races, that was
evident. It was not till later that he discovered their identity. The
tall, imperious-looking man was Prince Zouroff, the Russian Ambassador
to the Court of St. James's. The girl, about twenty, was his young
sister, the Princess Nada.
The young Princess was as kind and sweet-natured as she was beautiful.
She caught sight of the two mendicants, for as such she regarded them,
standing there in the snow, and a gleam of compassion came into her
lovely eyes. Impetuously, she pulled at the check-string, with the
intention of stopping the carriage and giving them money.
Her brother laid his hand on hers roughly.
"What foolish thing were you going to do now, Nada? Your
sentimentality is an absolute curse to you. If you had your own way,
you would give to every whining beggar in the street."
She shrank back as if he had struck her a blow. There was no love lost
between the two. He despised her for her kind, charitable instincts;
she disliked him for his hard, domineering nature, unsoftened by any
lovable or generous qualities. She put back the purse which she had
drawn hastily from her pocket. Her mouth curled in a mutinous and
contemptuous smile, but she returned no answer to the brutal words.
Nello played on in the cold and biting wind. When he had finished, his
sister had been the recipient of two small donations from the few
passers-by. The girl's heart already felt lighter. They could not
expect very much on such an unpropitious night as this.
And then, as the young violinist paused, from the first floor of one
of the houses close to them, there floated faintly into the air the
strains of a sweet and melancholy air, played with exquisite taste and
feeling.
Nello listened eagerly, while his heart contracted with a spasm of
pain. The man who had played that beautiful little melancholy romance
was as capable a violinist as himself. Alas, how different their lots!
When the sounds had died away, the young man resumed his instrument.
He played over twice that beautiful theme which had impressed him so
strongly, and then, as if inspired, wove into it a series of brilliant
variations.
He felt he was playing as he had only played once or twice before in
his life. Soon, a small crowd was gathered on the pavement, in spite
of the icy temperature. And when Anita went round shamefacedly with
her little bag, she met with a liberal response. Nello need play no
more that night, they had enough for their humble needs; they would
get home as quickly as possible. He had contracted a heavy cold from
which he was still suffering. To-morrow he could stop indoors and she
would nurse him, as she had so often done before.
She whispered the good news into her brother's ear, and joyfully he
placed the violin back into its case. The small crowd, noting the
action, melted away. The friendless young souls linked their arms
together, stepped on to the pavement and turned in the direction of
their humble lodging.
But they had not taken half a dozen steps when the door of a house was
opened very quietly, and an extraordinary figure stepped out and
beckoned to them.
"My poor children, it is a wretched night for you to be out." This
peculiar-looking old man was speaking in a very kind and gentle voice.
They noticed his face was withered and furrowed with the deep lines of
age. He wore a bristling white moustache, which gave him rather a
military air in spite of his stooping figure. He had on a tiny skull
cap to defend himself against the keen night air, but underneath it
his snow-white locks were abundant.
He turned to young Corsini, peering at him through his
tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. "You have the gift, my young friend;
you played those variations divinely. Our neighbour over the way is a
decent performer, he plays in a very good orchestra, but he has not
your fire, your brilliancy."
He fumbled in his pocket and produced a shilling, which he pressed
upon Anita, who shrank back a little. She had not always been
accustomed to this sort of half-charity.
The old man saw her embarrassment and smiled. "Ah, it is as I thought,
my child. But there is no cause to blush. If your brother were a
famous violinist and I paid half-a-guinea for a stall to hear him, you
would not think he had lowered himself by taking my money for the
pleasure he gave me. Well, I had my stall up here on the third floor!
there is a convenient little hole in the blind through which I could
peep and see the whole proceedings."
They both thanked him warmly, and were about to move on, when the
strange old man arrested them.
"Stop a second, my poor children. You must be numbed with standing so
long in that frosty air. I have a good fire upstairs. Come and warm
yourselves for a few moments."
His voice and manner were compelling. Wonderingly they obeyed,
although at the moment, they were thinking very intently of their
supper. Still, the night was young yet. They could wait a little
longer to make their purchases. Plenty of shops would be open. And a
few minutes spent at a bright fire would be comfortable.
He opened the door wide as they entered it and closed it behind him.
Then he skipped, wonderfully nimbly for a man of his age, in front of
them.
"Follow Papa Peron, that is what they call me in these parts, where I
have lived for Heaven knows how many years. It is a big climb and I
don't do it as easily as I used. But to children like you, it is a hop
and a skip. Follow me."
They followed him up the old-fashioned staircase into a small room,
where a roaring fire was blazing. He drew forth two easy-chairs and
motioned to them to seat themselves. He lighted another gas-jet in
their honour. He looked intently at their white faces, and what he
read there impelled him to a swift course of action.
He dived into a small sideboard. In a moment, as it seemed to the
fascinated watchers, he had laid a cloth upon the small and rather
rickety table, arranged knives and forks. Then he produced half a
fowl, two sorts of sausages, half a ripe Camembert cheese, and a dish
of tinned fruit. When all his preparations were complete, he beckoned
them imperiously to the table. He spoke in short, sharp accents, with
the air of a man who is accustomed to be obeyed.
"At once, please! You are famished with that dreary standing in this
arctic street, and it will be some time before you can get food.
Please fall in at once."
The sharp pangs of hunger were already gnawing the vitals of both
brother and sister, the tasty viands were inviting enough; but they
had observed the poorly furnished room. Monsieur Peron, in his small
fastidious way, seemed to have an air of distinction, but his clothes
were well-worn. Nobody could be as poor as themselves, but they felt
sure this kind-hearted old Frenchman was far from being well-off.
Corsini raised a protesting hand. "Sir, you have been kindness itself
already. You have warmed us, and we are very grateful, but we cannot
eat you out of house and home."
They guessed pretty accurately that these viands which he had produced
with such abandon, were meant to last some little time. The average
Frenchman is a small eater, and a very thrifty person.
Papa Peron beat the table impetuously. "_Mon Dieu_, do you refuse my
little whim? I am not rich, I admit. One does not lodge on the third
floor if one is a millionaire. That is understood. But I can show
hospitality when I choose. To table at once, my children, or I shall
be seriously displeased."
The old gentleman, in spite of his frail appearance, was very
masterful; it was impossible to resist him. Obediently they sat down,
but their native politeness forbade them to eat very much. They just
stayed their appetites, and left enough to satisfy their host for a
couple of days at least. In vain he exhorted them to persevere.
Brother and sister exchanged a meaning glance, and assured their host
that they had already done too well.
When they had finished and were back in the two easy-chairs, basking
in the warmth of the glowing fire, the old Frenchman went to a little
cupboard affixed to the wall. On his face was a sly smile.
From this receptacle he produced a bottle, dusty with age. He
performed some strenuous work with a somewhat refractory corkscrew
whose point had become blunt with the years. In a trice, he produced
three glasses and placed them on a small table which he drew close to
the fire.
"This is fine Chambertin," he explained to his astonished guests.
"A dozen bottles were sent to me by an old friend, since dead,
three years ago. In those three years I have drunk six--I am very
abstemious, my children. To-night, in your honour, I open the first of
the six that remain. We will carouse and make merry. It is a long time
since I have felt so inclined to merriment."
To this sally they could make no retort; they were still in state
of bewilderment. To a certain extent they felt themselves in a kind
of shabby fairyland. Was this strange old Frenchman as poor as
appearances suggested--or a miser with occasional freakish impulses
of generosity?
Papa Peron shot at them a shrewd glance. Perhaps he divined their
thoughts. Long experience had made him very wise, possibly a little
bit cunning.
"You think I am just a trifle mad, eh?" he queried.
With one voice, or rather two voices raised in a swift unison, they
disclaimed the insinuation. They only recognised several facts: that
he was very kind, very generous, very hospitable.
Papa Peron sipped the excellent Chambertin and fell into a meditative
mood.
"I lead a very lonely life, and youth, especially struggling youth,
has a great attraction for me. I watched you two poor children
to-night through the little peep-hole in my blind. _Mon Dieu!_ I
guessed the position at once. You had come out in the snow and bitter
wind, to try and make a living. You are two honest people, I am sure.
_N'est-ce pas?_" They had been speaking in English up to the present
moment, but momentary excitement, the stimulus of the Burgundy, had
made him indulge in his native tongue.
They assured him that they were.
Papa Peron smiled a little sardonically. "Of course you are. If you
were inclined in other directions, you with your talents, your sister
with her good looks, would have taken up more paying trades than this.
What have you earned to-night?" he concluded sharply.
Anita answered in a faltering voice. "Over three shillings, Monsieur."
The sardonic smile vanished. A look of infinite compassion spread over
the lined face.
"My poor children. Virtue is indeed its own reward." He turned to
Nello, and his eyes flashed fire. "And that charlatan, Bauquel, gets a
hundred guineas for a single performance. And he is not in the same
street with you."
"But Bauquel is a genius, surely, Monsieur?" ventured Corsini
deferentially. "I have never heard him play, certainly, but his
reputation! Surely he did not get that for nothing?"
He spoke very cautiously, for although he had not known Papa Peron for
very long, he had recognised that under that kindly and polite
demeanour was a very peppery temperament. If he were crossed in
argument, the old Frenchman might prove a very cantankerous person.
Peron snapped his fingers. "Bauquel, bah! A man of the Schools, a
machine-made executant. He never half understands what he attempts to
render." Again he snapped his contemptuous fingers. "Bauquel, bah! A
charlatan? It amazes me that the public runs after him. He has a
powerful press, and he employs a big _claque_. _Voila!_ On the
business side, I admit he is great; on the artistic side, not worth a
moment's consideration."
"You understand music, Monsieur, you are a critic?" suggested the
young man timidly. Papa Peron was evidently a very explosive person;
it would not be polite or grateful to risk his anger.
For a little time the old man did not answer. When he spoke, it was in
a dreamy tone.
"Once I was famous as Bauquel is to-day--with this difference: that I
was an artist and he is a pretender, with not an ounce of artistry in
him."
"Was your instrument the violin, Monsieur?"
"Alas, no," was the old man's answer. "Chance led me to the piano. I
think I did well. But I have always regretted that I did not take up
the violin. It is the one instrument that can sing. The human voice
alone rivals it."
After a moment's pause, he added abruptly, "Are you very tired?"
No, Corsini was not in the least tired. The warmth, the meal of which
he had eaten sparingly from motives of delicacy, the Burgundy, had
warmed his blood. He was no longer the weak, pallid creature who had
set out from his lodging to earn a night's sustenance.
"Why do you ask, Monsieur?"
"If you are not really tired, I would love to hear that exquisite
romance again, with one or two brilliant variations. See, in that
corner, stands a piano of fairly good tone. I will accompany you, or
rather follow you."
Corsini, his blood aglow with the generous stimulant, the strange
circumstances, rose up, took his violin from its case, and drew the
bow lovingly across the strings. The Frenchman went across to the
piano, opened the lid, and struck a few chords with a touch that
revealed the hand of the master.
For the next ten minutes the room resounded with the divinest melody.
The deep notes of the piano mingled with the soaring strains of the
violin.
Corsini, strangely inspired, played as one possessed. And Papa Peron
caught every inflection, every subtle change of key. Never, during the
brief performance, was there a single discord. All the time the
Frenchman, old in years, had followed every mood of the younger
musician.
Papa Peron dropped his slender, artistic hands on the last chord. "My
young friend, you are great," he said quietly. "Success to you is only
a matter of time. Another glass of Chambertin?"
Nello drained it; he felt strangely elated. "Ah, Monsieur, but your
accompaniment was half the battle. When I faltered, you stimulated me.
You must have been a magnificent pianist."
Anita broke in in her gentle voice. The daughter of an English
mother, she spoke the tongue of her adopted country very fluently.
"You put great heart into us, Monsieur. But when you speak of success,
I remember that we have earned just about three shillings to-night."
Peron, the optimist, waved his hand airily. "Look up to the stars, my
child, and hope. I have a little influence left yet. Perhaps I can put
you on the right track; take you at least out of these miserable
streets. Sit down for another ten minutes; make a second supper if you
like." He guessed that they had not fully satisfied their hunger.
But this they resolutely declined. He waved them to their chairs.
"Five minutes, then. Tell me a little something of your history. I am
sure it has been a tragic one."
And Corsini, departing from his usual mood of reticence, imparted to
the old Frenchman the details of his career.
His father, the elder Corsini, had been first violin at the Politeama
Theatre in Florence, while comparatively a young man. He had
quarrelled violently with the manager and been dismissed. Confident in
his ability, he had come over to England to seek his fortune afresh.
Here he had met and fallen violently in love with a young English
girl, some few years his junior. She was a pianist by profession, in
a small way. She attended at dances, played accompaniments at City
dinners. Her income was a very meagre one. She was the product of one
of the numerous schools that turn out such performers by the dozen.
They married, and Corsini soon discovered that he was not the
great man he imagined himself to be. Also, he was of a frail and
weakly constitution. Ten years after his marriage he died of rapid
consumption. Madame Corsini was left with two children on her hands.
She was a devoted mother. Nello dwelt on this episode of their sad
life with tears in his eyes. She worked hard for a miserable pittance;
and then she was worn out with the strain. Nello and his sister,
Anita, were left orphans. Nello had been taught the rudiments of the
violin by his father; all the rest he had picked up himself.
After his mother's death the rest was a nightmare. He had done his
best for himself and his sister. That best had landed them in this
snow-laden street to-night.
Papa Peron listened quietly to this young violinist's recital, but he
made little comment. Here was one of the numerous tragedies that were
occurring every day in every populous city.
He rose and shook hands with the two. "You have a lodging to go to, my
poor children?" he asked anxiously.
With a deep blush, Corsini assured him that they had a lodging to go
to; he did not dare to give him the address. Dean Street was a
comparatively aristocratic abode. Papa Peron's humbly furnished room
seemed a Paradise. And the piano was good--that must have been saved
from the prosperous day--and was his own. No Soho landlady would
provide such a piano as that.
Peron shook them warmly by the hand. "You must come and see me
to-morrow. I shall be in all the morning. I shall think things over
between now and then. I am a poor man myself, but I may be able to
help you with introductions. I must get you out of these miserable
streets."
They walked home, wondering about Papa Peron. Who could he be? Anita
inclined to the belief that he was a miser. Nello had his doubts.
Still very hungry, they bought some sausages on their way home and
devoured them before they went to bed. They still had a substantial
balance on hand, according to the thrifty Anita.
And the next morning, Nello was round at Dean Street to learn what
Papa Peron had thought of in the meanwhile.