The name of Gay seemed one to conjure with. Five minutes after the
letter had been taken in, Nello was shown in to Monsieur Degraux's
private room.
He was a tall, handsome man, this musical director of the opera who,
twenty-five years ago, had played in a small orchestra for a few
shillings a week. His countenance was florid, he had a very striking
personality. Emphatically he was the type of man who gets on, who
shoulders his way in the world, pushing aside with his strong,
resolute elbows his weaker and more timorous fellow creatures.
He was always urbane, even when he had to say No. At the present
moment he had not decided as to whether he would say Yes or No to his
old friend's request. He was very much taken with the appearance of
the slim, handsome young Italian. His clothes were certainly shabby:
Degraux's experienced eyes took in that fact at once; but there was a
certain resolution in Nello's bearing, a brightness and animation in
his face, that showed he was no ordinary seeker for favours.
"Sit down, sit down," he said genially, "although I cannot give you
very long. I am a very busy man; all the day and half the night I have
to cut myself into pieces, as it were. And always, I am frightfully
worried. To-day I have been more worried than usual."
"I am sorry to hear it, Monsieur," said the Italian, sympathetically.
If he wanted to get anything out of Monsieur Degraux, he must fall in
with his moods. Privately he thought the director's worries, whatever
their magnitude, were as nothing compared to his own.
This plump, prosperous-looking person was not very close to
starvation.
"You know, of course, the name of Bauquel?" inquired Degraux abruptly.
"A great genius, Monsieur." In spite of Papa Peron's hostile verdict,
the younger musician had a great reverence for the celebrated
violinist, who was a popular favourite in every European capital.
The director snapped his fingers, and indulged in an angry
exclamation. "Not the genius that he thinks himself, not the genius
his friends pretend he is. He is very astute on the business side, has
worked his Press well, and always maintains a vigilant _claque_. I and
people like myself have helped him very considerably also by taking
him at his face valuation. Genius, certainly not; at any rate, not a
great genius."
Monsieur Degraux snapped his fingers more contemptuously, and reeled
off the names of a few rivals. "Those are geniuses if you like,
artists who disclaim his clap-trap methods."
Nello felt uncomfortable and apprehensive. The irate director was
evidently so occupied with the subject of the offending Bauquel that
Mr. Gay's letter stood in danger of being forgotten. And the great man
had especially said that his time was short.
"Monsieur Bauquel has had the misfortune to incur your displeasure,
sir?" he hazarded.
"I should think he had," cried Degraux furiously. "He was to appear at
my great concert next week; Royalty and the elite of London will be
there. Two days ago we had a little tiff, in which I admit I told him
some home truths. What happens? This morning I receive a letter, dated
from Brighton, in which he throws me over. Pretends he is ill and that
his doctor has ordered a complete rest."
"And you do not believe this to be true, Monsieur?"
"True!" thundered Degraux. "An absolute lie. A friend of mine writes
me at the same time from the Grand Hotel. He tells me that the
so-called invalid is staying there with a rowdy party and looking the
picture of health. The scoundrel has done it to put me in a corner.
And what is to become of my concert? I cannot put my hand on a
violinist of the first rank in the few days left me."
Nello stood up, his face glowing, his limbs trembling with excitement.
He pointed to Gay's letter, which lay on the director's desk.
"Monsieur, I beseech you, if it is not too great presumption, to let
me take his place. I may not make a sensation, but certainly I shall
not be a failure. And you will have so many stars of the first
magnitude, that a smaller one may dare to give a little light. You
have read what Mr. Gay says of me. I fancy he is no mean judge of
music and musicians."
Degraux was suddenly brought down from his heights of indignation by
this direct appeal. He looked keenly at the young man, but in his eyes
there appeared a humorous twinkle, as if he admired his audacity.
"You don't miss a chance, I see, my young friend. But it is a big risk
to run you in the place of Bauquel, and as soon as he gets wind of it,
he will send his _claque_ to hiss you."
Monsieur Degraux thought for several seconds, and the young man went
hot and cold. His hopes, his fate, hung upon the conductor's caprice.
Degraux touched a bell on the desk with the air of a man who had made
up his mind. An attendant answered the summons.
"Please send in Mr. Lemoin." He turned to Nello. "This gentleman will
accompany you, and you shall show what you can do. Remember, you will
appear before one of the most appreciative, but also one of the most
critical, audiences in the world."
Monsieur Lemoin appeared, a fat chubby person. He accompanied very
well; not perhaps with the assured artistic instinct of old Papa
Peron, who was a part of the piano he played so skilfully.
Degraux listened intently. He had told Nello to play the pieces which,
in his own opinion, he could render best. The young man finished with
that sad little romance which he had heard in Dean Street on that
well-remembered night, and into which he wove some brilliant
variations.
The director rose and spoke, for him, rather enthusiastically. "Yes,
my young friend, Gay is right. You are a true artist. Play that little
romance at the end; you are at your best in that. Play it as you have
done here and we need not fear Bauquel's _claque_. I engage you for
that concert. I will also boom you, but not extravagantly--just
judiciously--in the short time that is left me. Now about terms?"
He named a fee that seemed to Corsini to represent absolute wealth. If
he could only obtain a couple of sovereigns on account, to ease the
hard conditions in Dean Street. Degraux did not seem a hard man; it
was possible the request would be granted as soon as asked.
But prudence forbade. It would be the reverse of politic to plead
absolute poverty on so brief an acquaintance. Till next week, they
must draw their belts a little tighter. Well, experience had taught
them to do that.
He hurried back to Dean Street with the joyful news. He was to appear
before a most fashionable audience in place of the great Bauquel,
squandering his money down at Brighton in order to revenge himself
upon the too plain-speaking Degraux.
Papa Peron was sitting up in bed, Anita by his side. The poor old man
had had one of his good days, the cough was less troublesome. The
doctor had whispered as he went out that if the severe weather mended
a little, they might pull him through. He smiled happily as his young
protege recounted what had happened.
"I have met Degraux once or twice in the years gone by, and I have
been told that prosperity has not spoiled him. But, my dear boy, there
is one little difficulty about that concert next week."
"And that?" asked young Corsini. He was so overjoyed in his new-found
fortune, that he could think of nothing else.
The old Frenchman chuckled quietly. "You will want an evening suit, my
young friend. One does not appear before Royalty in ordinary clothes,
and those not of the newest, does one?"
Nello groaned. The dress-clothes which Papa Peron had purchased
for the engagement at the Parthenon had found their way to the
pawn-brokers a few days ago, to provide food. What a fool he had been
not to make a clean breast of it to Degraux and ask for a few pounds
in advance!
"It crossed my mind to ask for a loan, and I was afraid I might offend
him," explained the young man.
"Quite right, my dear son, quite right. Those wealthy men are
peculiar. We will not trouble this rich gentleman. There are other
ways."
He pointed his thin hand to a little cupboard standing against the
wall. "Go and open the door. Within I have a small private box where I
keep my papers. Bring it to me, please."
Nello obeyed, and carried to him a beautiful little antique casket of
ebony, inlaid with tortoise-shell and silver, with some cipher letters
on the lid. The old man opened it with a key which he wore attached to
a ribbon round his neck.
From the small box he carefully produced an antique ring with a tiny
miniature portrait, exquisitely painted and set with diamonds. This he
pressed reverently to his lips, and then handed it to the young man,
saying:
"This is the likeness of my honoured Master, my Emperor Napoleon the
Third--given to me with his own hand."
He took out a jewelled star, all tarnished. "This is the Order of the
Chevalier of St. Louis, bestowed upon me for my services to----" He
could not finish his sentence; the tears were rolling down his thin,
wasted cheeks.
Brother and sister exchanged a swift glance across the bed. Evidently,
Monsieur Peron had, at one time, been a personage of some importance.
Sovereigns did not bestow such gifts upon undistinguished people.
"Take that ring and the Order," commanded the old man in his feeble,
husky voice. "Go and pawn them. If you cannot get enough by pawning,
sell them outright. And buy a dress-suit with the money to-day."
Both Nello and his sister protested. These two objects and the piano
were all that the old man had preserved out of his brilliant past.
Corsini spoke. "Listen, dear Papa! You would not part with these when
we had not enough to eat. I can understand what they represent to you.
Do not worry about me. I will go to Degraux in a couple of days and
explain the situation. Even if he is annoyed, he will have gone too
far to recede."
But Peron was persistent. A flash of his old imperiousness came back
to him.
"Go and do as I tell you. My days are numbered. My one hope is that I
may live to see you successful. Go and dress yourself properly. Let me
hear of your success before I die; that is all I wish."
The strain of the interview had been too much for him. Taken with a
violent fit of coughing, he sank back exhausted on his pillow. Anita
pointed to the door.
"You cannot disobey his wishes. Come back and tell him you have done
what he asked you. It may give him a few days more of life."
The young man, fearing the old man's death, rushed round to the
nearest pawnbroker in Wardour Street. Upon the ring alone he raised
sufficient to hire a dress-suit at a neighbouring costumier's. On his
return he was overjoyed to find that the poor Papa had rallied from
his exhaustion.
On the night of the concert Nello came into the old man's room to bid
him good-night. Peron drew him towards him and kissed him on both
cheeks.
"Courage, my son, courage!" Alas! every day the voice was getting
feebler. "You play at the end that little romance with your own
variations. _Au revoir._ I shall be awake when you return to hear the
news. Anita and I will not have a wink of sleep till you come back."
"_Au revoir, bon_ Papa!" was Nello's parting greeting.
Papa Peron raised himself in his bed, shook his hand at the air and
almost shouted after him: "And if you do not outplay that charlatan,
Bauquel, I will never forgive you."