His heart heavy with grief at the loss of his kind old friend, who had
been to him and his sister a second father, Nello Corsini faced again
a fastidious and critical audience in the saloons of the Russian
Embassy.
Last night he had played to the elite of the fashionable world, made
up of its many elements. Royalty, as represented by the sovereign and
her children, the flower of the aristocracy, subordinate members of
the financial and commercial world, distinguished persons of every
profession.
To-night he was to appear before the smaller world of diplomacy and
politics. But he was very confident of himself. If he had not failed
on that vast stage, he would not disgrace himself on a smaller one.
The Princess Zouroff was devoted to music, as was her daughter. The
somewhat brutal Prince, her son, could not distinguish one note from
another--like his father, whose death had been regretted by nobody,
excepting his son.
The difference between father and son was very easy to define. The
late Prince Zouroff was both brutal and brainless. The present holder
of the title was of quite as brutal nature as his father, but he
possessed mentality. In short, he inherited the brains of his mother,
the gentle, grey-haired lady, whom he despised for her womanly
qualities.
Two _prime donne_ and a celebrated contralto had already sung. The two
_prime donne_ had united in a duet which resembled the warbles of two
nightingales; the contralto had enchanted the audience with her deep
and resonant notes; an accomplished quartette had disbursed exquisite
music.
It was time for the turn of the violinist. Nello Corsini, his slim
figure habited in the garments which he had hired from a costumier in
the neighbourhood of Wardour Street, followed these famous personages.
He was so adaptive that, in this short space, he had learned to
accustom himself to his environment. A few weeks ago he had been
playing in the streets for coppers. To-night he was playing for higher
stakes.
He darted his bright, keen eyes over the illustrious assembly, and his
spirits rose, as they always did when something was to be striven for.
In a far corner he saw three men standing together and whispering
confidentially. One was the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, wearing
the ribbon of the Garter; another was that brilliant genius, too early
eclipsed, Lord Randolph Churchill; the third was a slim, tall young
man, who had taken on the dangerous post of Secretary for Ireland,
still now with us, beloved and revered by all parties, Arthur James
Balfour, who later succeeded his great uncle as Prime Minister.
In these far-off days the old melodies were the sweetest. Nello played
first the "Ave Maria" of Gounod. He followed on with Chopin. And then,
as a finale, he played that exquisite little romance which had floated
on a wintry night out of the window of a house in Dean Street, with
his own variations.
There was a subdued thrill amongst the audience. There was not the
full-throated applause that had greeted him at Covent Garden; but he
made allowance for that. The pit and the gallery had had something to
say last evening: they were always ready to recognise a new genius.
This assembly was too _blase_, it was no longer capable of great
emotion, even in the case of an artist of the first rank. But, in a
way, they were subtly appreciative. At least, he had pleased them.
Nello Corsini, with his keen Latin mind, grasped the situation.
Princess Zouroff had set the fashion. There were many more fashionable
concerts at which he would be invited to play, at remunerative fees.
But he also remembered that both Papa Peron and Degraux had pointed
out to him the uncertain tenure of public favour.
Unobtrusively, he made his way out, but not before Princess Zouroff
had thanked him warmly for the pleasure he had given them, and
introduced him to a few notable persons, some of them hostesses as
popular as herself, who had spoken gracious words.
And while he was talking to one of these exalted ladies, there had
floated to him a vision of youthful beauty, the lovely young Princess
Nada, attired in an exquisite dress of white satin, a single diamond
star in her dark-brown hair, round her slim neck a row of pearls.
These were her only ornaments. She reached out her slender hand.
"Thank you so much, Signor. That exquisite little romance brought the
tears to my eyes. We shall meet many times again, I trust, and I shall
often ask you, as a special request, to play that to me."
"Enchanted, Mademoiselle," answered Corsini, bowing low, and blushing
a little. He was rather overwhelmed with these compliments from great
ladies. The person to whom he was talking when Nada intervened was a
popular Countess, the chatelaine of an historic house in Piccadilly.
She had spoken of a concert in a few days' time which she had invited
the young violinist to attend.
"A great artist and a very handsome young man also," murmured the
great lady to Nada, as soon as Nello was out of earshot. "He will very
soon be the rage. Bauquel will want to commit suicide."
The Prince, who was talking to the Prime Minister, and always saw
everything that was going on, had observed the brief conversation
between his sister and the violinist. A scowl settled on his handsome
face.
As soon as he was disengaged, he overtook the young Princess as she
was on her way to speak to some guests.
"Indulging in a little bout of sentiment again with this young
fiddler, Nada?" he inquired in sneering tones. "Telling him how
delighted you were with his playing, eh? What need is there to thank
these hired artists? They are well paid, generally overpaid, for what
they do."
Usually the Princess endured the insults and coarse remarks of her
truculent brother with disdainful indifference. To-night she was a
little unstrung. Like her mother, she was a passionate lover of
music--what the French describe as _un amateur_. The lovely voices of
the two _prime donne_, the exquisite strains of the violin, had raised
her to an exalted mood, in which she only wanted to think of things
pure and beautiful.
The Prince's coarse words and sneering accents jarred upon her
sensibilities, and aroused in her a spirit of antagonism. She darted
at him an angry and contemptuous glance.
"You are more than usually offensive to-night, Boris. I suppose you
have been indulging in your favourite habit of drinking too much
champagne."
The shaft went home. It was well known in his family and amongst his
friends that the Prince, in spite of the obligations of his high
position, was far from abstemious, and had caused some scandal as a
consequence of his unfortunate proclivities.
A dull flush spread over his hard, handsome face. "You little
spitfire!" he growled savagely. "I wonder when you will be tamed.
Never, so long as our mother refrains from keeping a tighter rein over
you."
For answer, the young Princess swept scornfully away from him, in her
pearls and shimmering white satin, a dream of loveliness to everybody
except her churlish brother.
Nello hastened home to his frugal supper in Dean Street, prepared for
him by the capable hands of his little sister. A roll of notes had
been handed to him on his departure by a slim young man, the secretary
of the Princess. In spite of his natural grief at the death of the
poor old Papa, he was jubilant, over his good luck. In two evenings he
had made a small fortune. He handed over the precious roll of notes
to Anita.
"They are safe in your keeping, my dear one. But you must buy yourself
some good clothes. Heaven knows we have starved and gone shabby long
enough. But I cannot believe in it yet. It is still a dream."
Poor Papa Peron was lying upstairs. Nello to-night would sleep in an
improvised bed made up on the shabby sofa in the sitting-room. Anita,
with her usual spirit of self-sacrifice, had offered him her own
attic, while she made shift, but, of course, he would not hear of
that.
He had spent the morning in making arrangements for the funeral; they
would bury the kind old Papa in two days from now. Happily, there was
no lack of money at the moment. A week sooner, and a pauper's grave
might have awaited him.
Nello was very excited with his evening, and in consequence, wakeful.
He smoked a cigarette, and Anita thought he would suggest retiring to
his improvised bed after he had finished. But, to her surprise, he did
not seem at all desirous of repose.
"Are you very sleepy, little one?" he asked.
As a matter of fact the girl could hardly keep her eyes open. The long
watch by old Peron's bedside had tried her slender vitality sorely.
But she was always ready to sacrifice herself to the slightest whim of
those she loved.
"Not in the least. What is in your mind, Nello?"
"I thought we might look through the dear old Papa's papers. He said
we were to open that cupboard after his death. I wonder if we shall
learn who and what he was?"
Nello went to the little cupboard and drew from it the ebony casket.
The first thing that met his eye was the glittering order of Saint
Louis, attached to a faded ribbon, which had been returned on the
night when he had raised sufficient money on the miniature.
There was a very small bundle of papers, carefully tied up, for good
old Papa Peron was nothing if not methodical and neat. There was
nothing in the papers to reveal his identity. With two exceptions they
were absolutely unimportant documents. These, according to Peron's
dying injunctions, Nello committed to the fire. It was the dead man's
wish.
The first exception was a letter addressed to Anita, dated a few weeks
back, no doubt when he had prescience that the end was near. In it he
told her that he had left everything in the world he possessed to her:
the ring set with diamonds, which had not then been pawned, the order
of St. Louis, and the piano. These would give her and her brother a
little capital with which to carry on.
It was a very informal sort of will, although he had taken the
precaution to have his signature witnessed by his landlady. But there
was no next of kin to dispute the document, and Anita was the sole
heiress of his poor possessions--poor from the point of view of money
value.
Two other letters were tied up together, the one addressed to Nello
himself, the other marked "Private" and directed to the Baron Andreas
Salmoros, 510 Old Broad Street, E.C.
The note to Nello, dated a few days after the more or less informal
will, was short but to the point.
Peron informed his protege, at the time of writing, that his artistic
career still hung in the balance. That even if he achieved a certain
success, his career was an uncertain one. It behoved him therefore to
set his ambitions in other directions which might yield more permanent
results. The letter concluded as follows:
"There yet remains one person in the world who will still
take an interest in me. For the remembrance of those days
long ago, he may prove of service to you when I am gone.
After all is over with me, carry this letter to him yourself.
Trust it to no other hands. Of course you have guessed that
Peron is an assumed name. If the Baron likes to reveal to you
my identity, he will do so. It will matter no longer to me."
Nello gasped, as he laid down the letter. "But dear old Papa Peron
must have been a distinguished man at one time. He speaks of Salmoros
as an old, I should say a great, friend of the long ago. Of course you
do not know who he is."
Anita shook her head. She had never heard of the Baron Andreas
Salmoros. How should she? Absorbed in her domestic cares, she never
read the newspapers.
"But he is one of the greatest financiers in the world," cried Nello
eagerly. "He is only second to the Rothschilds themselves."
And then it suddenly struck him that Salmoros was a very busy man,
that approach to him was difficult. Peron had expressly said that he
was to take the letter to him himself. If Peron had only written a
private note introducing him, a note that could be posted! But the
poor Papa had not thought of that, of course.
Then there recurred to him the altered circumstances which had taken
place since that letter was written.
Then he was just Signor Nello Corsini, unknown and poor. To-day all
the newspapers, London and provincial, had blazoned forth his name as
a brilliant and successful artist. Even the great financier would
welcome a great musician.
And even if he did not, the Princess Zouroff, at whose house he had
played to-night, the Countess, at whose house he was playing shortly,
would secure him a personal introduction. It was a certainty that the
Baron's vast wealth enabled him to mix in their world.