The old Frenchman had heard Corsini's knock at the door. He stood at
the entrance to his shabby sitting-room, the only article of furniture
being the piano, his kind old lined face illumined with smiles.
"Courage, my young friend. I did not sleep very well after the
excitement of your visit. Inspiration came to me in the middle of the
night. You see that letter?" He pointed to a small desk standing
against the wall. "Go and see to whom it is addressed."
Nello obeyed him. His eyes sparkled as he read the name on the
envelope. "Mr. Gay, the leader of the orchestra at the Parthenon."
Papa Peron nodded his leonine head, bristling with its snow-white
locks. "A friend of mine. He is a composer as well as _chef
d'orchestre_. I have corrected many of his proof sheets for a firm I
work for."
Corsini pricked up his ears at this statement. He and his sister had
been curious as to the old man's profession. The mystery was solved.
He was no miser, no millionaire, just a music publisher's hack. And
once, according to his own statement, he had been a famous pianist,
with a renown equal to that of Bauquel.
"I have asked him to give you the first vacancy in his orchestra. He
will do it to oblige me, for I have helped him a little--given him
some ideas. It is one of the best theatre orchestras in London. The
pay, alas! will not be good, but it will take you out of those
miserable streets. Go to his private address this morning; I am sure
he will see you at once."
"How can I thank you?" began the young man; but Peron stopped him with
an imperious wave of his long, thin hand.
"Tut, tut, my child! I want no thanks. I have taken a fancy to you and
that dear little sister of yours. Now, listen; I have another scheme
on hand."
Rapidly the genial old man unfolded his plans.
"In my room there are two beds. The landlady has a little attic to
let, by no means a grand apartment, but it will serve for your sister.
You can share my room. Three people can live almost as cheaply as
two." There was a knowing smile on the wrinkled face, as the genial
Papa enunciated this profound economic truth. "Come and live here. You
can practise on the violin while I play your accompaniments."
"But Monsieur, at the moment, we have no money," stammered the
embarrassed violinist. "Mr. Gay may not have a vacancy for some little
time."
Papa Peron frowned ever so little. He did not easily brook
contradiction. "You are making difficulties where none exist. You must
lodge somewhere. My landlady only asks five shillings a week for the
attic. You share my bedroom and sitting-room. As for the food, you
will be my guests till you earn something. Do not say me nay," he
ended fiercely. "I am resolved that you shall play no more in those
miserable gutters. It is finished. You come here to-night."
There was no resisting this imperious old man with the frail figure
and the snow-white abundant hair. Nello promised that he and his
sister would move into Dean Street that afternoon. In the meantime, he
would take the letter of introduction to Mr. Gay, who had lodgings in
Gower Street, no great distance.
Mr. Gay was a fat, rubicund man with a somewhat faded and slatternly
wife. He read Peron's note and a genial smile lit up his massive face.
"Good!" he cried heartily. "My old friend vouches for you, and you
have come in the very nick of time. One of my men is leaving in a
couple of days--got a better berth. You can take his place. But before
we settle, you may as well give me a taste of your quality. We go in
for rather high-class music at the Parthenon. Play me Gounod's 'Ave
Maria,' I always test a man with that."
He called to the slatternly woman who was crouching over the fire.
"Ada, please go to the piano and play the accompaniment for this young
man."
Mrs. Gay complied with the request. Nello played the beautiful piece
with all his soul. Gay listened, attentively. When it was finished, he
applauded loudly.
"By Jove, you are great! Peron was right. He has not exaggerated. You
have had no chance, eh?"
Nello stammered that he had had no chances. He did not dare confess
to this prosperous person, composer as well as conductor of an
orchestra, that, lately, he had been playing in the streets for a
living to pay for his miserable lodging and scanty food.
They arranged terms with many apologies on the part of Mr. Gay.
"It is an insult to a man of your talent to offer such a miserable
pittance. But my hands are tied, and tied very strictly, I can tell
you. Turn up at the Parthenon on Friday night; you will soon get
something better. You can read music quickly?"
Nello assured him on that point. He could read music as easily as his
newspaper. The terms which Mr. Gay offered him were riches compared to
the few coppers he had earned in the streets.
That same afternoon he and the joyful Anita presented themselves in
Dean Street, with their few belongings. Papa Peron furnished a royal
supper and broached another bottle of the very excellent Chambertin.
There was, however, still the question of clothes. Nello had nothing
but what he stood up in, and the Parthenon was a very swagger
theatre. Peron was equal to the emergency. He took the young man
round to a neighbouring costumier's, and secured a dress-suit on the
hire-purchase system, at a very small outlay of ready money which he
advanced. For, although the good Papa was not rich, he was very
thrifty, and usually had a shot in the locker.
It was a very happy _menage_; the old Frenchman was kindness and
geniality itself. He seemed to grow younger in the society of his
youthful friends.
And in time the mystery that had seemed to surround him vanished,
his means of livelihood became revealed. He was on the staff of a
couple of big music publishers. He corrected their proof sheets,
he occasionally advised on compositions of budding composers; but
needless to say, at this hack work his remuneration was very modest.
But he always appeared cheerful and resigned. He would drop
fragmentary hints of a brilliant past, when money flowed like water,
when he had mixed with illustrious personages. But he could never be
induced to dwell very long on this period, would enter into no
convincing details.
"It is gone, it is a feverish dream," he would say with a somewhat
theatrical wave of the hand. It was evidently a weakness of his to
enshroud himself in an air of romance and mystery. "What does it
matter who and what I was? To-day I am Papa Peron, music publisher's
hack, earning a few shillings a week at a most uncongenial occupation.
But, at my age, I want little."
Nello and his sister were happy too. The salary at the Parthenon was
not magnificent, but it was a certainty, and they were frugal young
people. No more playing in the sleet-driven streets, no more terrible
uncertainty as to the night's lodging and the next day's meal.
For a month they pursued this humble, but not uncomfortable life. And
Nello, who had no opportunity of displaying his talent in this big
orchestra, where he was one of many, played two or three hours a day
to the brilliant accompaniment of the old Frenchman.
And then the clouds began to gather. Papa Peron was taken with a
severe attack of bronchitis. Racked in spasms of severe coughing, he
was unable to pursue his humble and not too remunerative occupation.
He could no longer correct the proof sheets. The doctor's visits, the
necessity of extra and expensive nourishment, began to eat up his
slender store. The few sovereigns he had hoarded for a rainy day began
to melt rapidly.
This did not matter much for a while. The regular salary at the
Parthenon sufficed, with Anita's skilful management, for the three;
but there was no longer any question of putting by. Anita knew now
that she had been very mistaken in thinking the poor old Papa was a
miser. With tears in his poor old eyes, he had been forced to confess
that he had come to his last sovereign.
And Anita had cried too. "What does it matter, dear Papa?" she said.
She had grown very fond of the kind old man. "You took us in when we
were poor and friendless. Nello will work for you now, and I shall be
very careful. You will see how well I can manage on a little."
And so good old Papa Peron had his beef-tea, his little drops of
brandy, his expensive chicken. Whoever went without, he must not
experience want. And the doctor was paid punctually.
But misfortunes never come single. One very frosty night, on coming
out of the Parthenon, Nello fell on the slippery pavement and
seriously hurt his left hand. He went to the doctor on his way home,
and his worst fears were confirmed.
"A longish job, I fear, Signor Corsini. The fingers are very much
injured, and so is the arm. You are a musician, are you not?"
"A violinist, sir. If it had been the right arm instead of the left, I
might have managed with the bow. But I cannot play a note."
Mr. Gay was informed of the accident, in a letter from Anita. He was
genuinely sorry, but the theatre had to be served. He had to procure
another violinist at once. For four miserable weeks Nello ate his
heart out, and Papa Peron seemed to grow weaker every day.
When life and motion returned to the poor damaged fingers, there were
only a few shillings left in the house. Peron had announced that if
help did not come soon they must sell the piano, the one bit of
property he owned in the world. So, at least, he averred.
Nello could play now. He went round at once to Gay's lodging in Gower
Street. Could he be taken on again? The kindly conductor hemmed and
hawed; he was obviously very much embarrassed.
"We had to fill up your place, my dear chap, and the new man has
proved quite satisfactory. It is, of course, awfully hard on you. But,
you see, I can't sack him to put you in his place."
"Of course not," answered Nello quietly. Misery was gnawing at his
heart, but he was just. The man who was taken on had possibly been in
the same state of wretchedness as himself. He would hardly have cared
to turn him out, if Gay had been willing.
"And how is the dear old Papa?" asked Gay, trying to relieve an
awkward situation with the inquiry.
"He is very ill; not far from death, I fear," was Nello's answer. And
then the truth, which he could no longer conceal, flashed out. "And
very soon he will be close to starvation."
Gay looked shocked. He had experienced his ups and downs, but he had
never been in such a tight corner as this. He fumbled in his waistcoat
pocket and produced a sovereign, which he thrust into the other man's
hand.
"Terrible, terrible! I am sorry I cannot do more; but I am a poor man,
too."
Nello took it, but his face burned, it was such obvious charity.
"I accept it, Monsieur, with gratitude, and I thank you for the kind
thought. But can you help me to find work? I want to earn money, not
to beg it."
"Sit down a moment while I think." The kind-hearted conductor was very
distressed himself at the piteous state of affairs.
"I have it," he exclaimed after a few moments of reflection. "You have
heard of Paul Degraux?"
"One of the directors of the Covent Garden Opera?"
"Right," said Gay. "Well, Degraux is a big man now, but twenty-five
years ago we were playing in the same orchestra for a few shillings a
week. He is there, I am here. We have never quite lost sight of each
other, and I think he would always do me a good turn if it was in his
power. I will give you a note to him. Take it round to him this
morning. You will find him at the theatre."
Ten minutes later, Corsini was on his way to the great man. Gay had
written a most glowing and eulogistic introduction.
"The bearer of this note, Signor Nello Corsini, is a most accomplished
violinist. I have had him in my orchestra, but he is too good for
that. Give him a chance at one of your concerts and he will make good.
You know my judgment is generally pretty accurate. Give him a helping
hand and you will not regret it."