A month had elapsed since the funeral of the good old Papa, and the
note addressed to the Baron Salmoros was still in Corsini's keeping.
He knew from a postscript in Peron's letter that no date except that
of the year had been affixed to it, for obvious reasons.
The young man was considering his position. There was no doubt that
the Baron had been asked to find him a post that would give a more
assured future, remove him from the difficulties, the uncertainties of
an artistic career. He was not yet quite sure in his own mind that he
wanted to avail himself of this opportunity, if Salmoros offered it to
him.
His month's experience had been very satisfactory. An enterprising
gentleman, keenly on the alert for new clients, had introduced himself
to him and established himself as his agent, unfolding a rosy future
if he trusted himself to his skilled guidance. Nello had agreed. This
plausible person, obviously of the Hebraic persuasion, knew the ropes,
Nello did not. Besides, he had come with a recommendation from
Degraux, who had spoken highly of his abilities in exploiting young
artists, who had set their first step on the ladder of fame.
Yes, the month had been very satisfactory, if it had not reaped quite
such a golden harvest as Nello and his sister had anticipated. The
agent booked him for private concerts as hard as he could, but there
was a great variance in the fees. Some were considerable, some very
moderate. Mr. Mosenstein--such was the agent's name--made light of the
discrepancy. These were the anomalies incidental to the profession.
"The great thing is to get known, my dear boy, to be seen everywhere,
in South Kensington as well as Belgravia," the plausible agent had
explained. "If South Kensington pays you less than Belgravia and
Mayfair, never mind. Better take a small fee than stop at home,
earning nothing."
All of which went to prove to the shrewd young man that, if he had set
his feet upon the first steps of the ladder, he had not, so far,
mounted very high up. If the great Bauquel, who had now made it up
with Degraux, condescended to play in South Kensington at all, he
would demand a higher fee than he obtained in Mayfair, penalising the
less fashionable quarter for the honour of his services.
Brother and sister, for Anita was no less shrewd than her brother, and
had a fund of common sense, argued the matter out many times, now
inclining one way, now another.
The present was distinctly satisfactory: it meant absolute wealth
compared with the penury of the old days. The question was, would it
last? Was he just, in a secondary sort of way, the fashion of the
moment in certain circumscribed circles, to be shortly superseded by
somebody who had scored in a night, by some fortunate accident, the
same kind of sudden success? In short, should he take that letter to
the Baron Salmoros or not? That was the vital question. In his
undecided mood, he sought Degraux, who received him with great
cordiality, but who had now made it up so effectually with the still
powerful Bauquel that he had no opening for another violinist.
"Privately, my friend, I agree with your old Papa Peron that as an
artist pure and simple you are the superior of Bauquel. But what can
one do? Bauquel has got the name, he has ten years' reputation behind
him. At any moment he may be relegated to a back seat, but at present
he fills, he draws. He is an asset to an impresario. In a word, he
represents gate money. His name on an announcement fills the house.
Five years hence, I predict it will be very different."
Nello pondered these wise and sensible sayings. "Do you think it
possible, Monsieur, that I could gain the standing of Bauquel? You
have seen and known so much, I can believe in your opinion."
The great director shrugged his shoulders. "You ask me a little too
much, my friend. I cannot see into the future. You have made a very
considerable success, you created quite a respectable furore on that
night--but----" he paused significantly.
"But!" repeated Nello quietly. "Please be quite frank with me. I want
to hear the truth."
"I cannot say that you have progressed much since that night. You ask
me to speak frankly, and I should say, on the contrary, that you have
gone back a bit. No doubt you are doing quite well at these private
concerts--that is Mosenstein's specialty. But, supposing I could ask
you to play for me at my next big concert, which I can't because
Bauquel will be there, I doubt if you would repeat the success."
"In a word, I am far from being in the first, even in the second
rank?" queried Nello. His life had been so full of disappointments,
that he had become hardened in the process. He did not seem as
disturbed as Degraux had expected he would be by this uncomfortable
cold _douche_ of plain speaking.
"Fairly well on in the second rank. Mark you, I am not speaking of
your standing as an artist, but just from the box-office point of
view. You see, one can never tell what goes to the making of a
first-class success. An inferior person often achieves it, a genius as
often as not misses it."
He did not mention names, but Nello guessed, while he was speaking,
Degraux had the great Bauquel in mind, who, he admitted, was the
inferior artist.
The young man looked a little downcast, in spite of his stoicism.
Degraux clapped him on the shoulder.
"Now, my young friend, cheer up. After all, you are not doing so
badly. Live as frugally as you can, put by every penny you can save.
If things go well, still save. If they go badly, you will have
something put by. You remember our last conversation here, eh? I told
you to join, as quickly as possible, the ranks of the exploiters
instead of remaining in the vast army of the exploited."
Nello remembered that conversation well. Degraux's advice had made a
great impression on him at the time.
"That is precisely what I am here for, Monsieur--to ask you to give me
a little more of your valuable advice on a very important matter. I am
not at all sure about the rewards of the simply artistic career."
"Tell me what is in your mind," answered Degraux kindly. It was not
the first time in his long and brilliant career that he had been
called upon to act as the arbiter of a young man's destiny.
Nello told him of the note addressed to himself, of the letter
directed to the Baron Salmoros, whom Peron apparently claimed as an
old and attached friend.
Degraux elevated his eyebrows at the mention of that world-known name.
"Salmoros! One of the greatest of European financiers. He knows the
secrets of pretty well every Cabinet," he remarked, when the young man
had finished his narrative. "Your old Papa Peron must, at some time,
have been a person of more than ordinary distinction. You have no
knowledge of the contents of that sealed letter?"
"None, Monsieur. I can only guess that I have been recommended to the
Baron's protection."
"Of course," said Degraux. "It is a pity this very kind old man was
not a little bit more communicative before his death, or in his last
letter to you."
"I think he was a little fond of mystery, Monsieur."
"Evidently," said Degraux drily. "Possibly, when you knew him--you
told me the acquaintance was very brief--he had begun to go a little
off his head. Well, let us see how the matter stands. On the one side,
satisfaction with your present lot, with all the possibilities opening
out to you. On the other hand, the presentation of this letter, with
the chance of the Baron's patronage. If we could only have a peep into
that letter we should know better where we were."
"But that is impossible, Monsieur. We can only guess that the kind old
Papa has recommended me in the warmest terms."
"Yes, we may assume that. Then, I think, my young friend, there is
only one obvious course. You take that letter to the Baron. When he
has read it, he will either put you off with smooth promises, or
propose a certain line of action out of deference to his old friend's
request. If he should put before you any proposition that does not
recommend itself to you, you can easily decline and stick to your
present career."
The advice was sound and sensible. By presenting the letter to the
eminent financier there was nothing to lose. On the other hand, there
might be something to gain.
"Unfortunately, Monsieur, I do not know the Baron personally. I
understand he is a very busy man, and access to him a very difficult
matter."
"That is so," admitted Degraux. "I know him just a little. I dare say
you have heard that he is a great lover of music, and we have
exchanged a few words now and then. But I fear my acquaintance with
him would hardly excuse a formal note of introduction. But stay, you
know the Princess Zouroff and Lady Glendover, at whose house you
played lately. He is a friend of both. Either of these will give you
what you want. If not, come and see me again and I will think of
somebody I know fairly well, who will do it as a favour to me."
"Both these ladies occurred to me," said Nello. "The Princess is
kindness itself; I am sure she would do it at once. But, in case of
failure, I will fall back upon you."
With many thanks for his good advice, Nello took leave of the
warm-hearted director. Yes, Degraux was quite right. He would present
that letter as soon as possible. He would write to the Princess
Zouroff to-morrow.
But fate willed it that the Princess's good offices were not required.
He was playing that night at the house of a certain Mrs. Raby, who
lived in Kensington Gore.
Mrs. Raby was a widow of about fifty years of age, of good family and
considerable fortune of her own. When a romantic girl of twenty-two
she had eloped with a man some twenty years her senior, who happened
to be one of the greatest, if not absolutely the greatest, pianists of
his day. For a long time her parents and friends held aloof from her.
Artists were all very well in their way, but Constance Raby, with her
money and good looks--she was an heiress through her godmother--ought
to have made a brilliant match.
But Mrs. Raby loved her long-haired musician, the more perhaps for the
fact that he was an Englishman, and never repented her choice. And in
time, parents and friends condescended to bury the hatchet and came to
her house, exchanging frigid courtesies with the artistic husband.
To their drawing-rooms flocked the elite of the musical world--great
sopranos, great contraltos, nearly every artist of eminence. And in
that charming house in Kensington Gore they gave for nothing what they
demanded high fees for elsewhere, for was not the host one of their
own world, and had they not adopted his charming wife as one of
themselves?
Mr. Raby had died some ten years ago, but his widow still maintained
the fame of those musical evenings. And to those who had still their
way to make, an appearance in Mrs. Raby's drawing-rooms conferred a
_cachet_.
Mosenstein had secured an invitation for his young client. There was
no fee. When Nello had demurred to this, not quite understanding the
situation, the astute agent had silenced his objections at once.
"You do not understand, my young friend. England is a very funny
place. A lot is done here for love. Mrs. Raby occupies a unique
position. Supposing you were unknown, to play at one of her evenings
would secure you a twenty-guinea engagement in South Kensington.
Patti, Lucca, Nielson have sung there for friendship. Sarasate has
played there for friendship. My friend, if you are wise, you will be
glad that I have procured you an invitation."
Nello made no further objection. Mosenstein knew the ropes as well as
anybody. If he urged him to go to the house in Kensington Gore and
play for nothing he had a wise motive. Mrs. Raby was evidently a power
in the musical world.
The drawing-rooms were crowded, mostly with musical people. But there
were a few others from another world; and amongst these, Nello
presently discovered his patroness, Lady Glendover, who came here out
of sheer love of music. The Countess had to pay five hundred or more
for what Mrs. Raby got for nothing.
She greeted Nello kindly and invited him to sit beside her.
"Do you know many people here?" she asked, as she made way for him on
the sofa.
"So far as I can see, nobody but yourself, Madame."
"Oh, then, we will take compassion on each other and keep each other
company--at least till you have to play. I suppose you are on the
programme."
"I believe so. My agent, Mosenstein, is arranging matters, and he will
tell me when I am wanted."
"Very well; until that moment arrives we can sit still and chat. I
don't know very many people either: just a few artists who have
appeared at my house. The Princess Zouroff sometimes comes, but she is
not here to-night. Some evenings, of course very late, it is as good
as one of Paul Degraux's concerts, when all the great stars have come
on. About one o'clock in the morning they begin to warble and outplay
each other. Of course you know Mrs. Raby married the greatest pianist
of his day. They perform for her out of camaraderie."
They talked for a little time, when the Countess suddenly exclaimed:
"Ah, there is somebody from my own world, the Baron Salmoros. There is
such, a crush, he does not see me. Do you know him?"
Nello's breath came quickly. "No, Madame, but at the moment he is the
one man in the world that I particularly want to know."
Lady Glendover looked at him sharply, but she was too polite to
inquire the cause of his sudden agitation.
"I will introduce you to him with pleasure; but it is no use running
after him in this crowd, we shall never catch him. I know his methods,
he comes here very often, he is a great _amateur_. He will exchange
greetings with the many artists he knows, making a tour of the rooms,
and then he will see me and come to a halt in front of us."
Lady Glendover's prognostication of the Baron's movements was a
correct one. After what seemed to Nello, watching his slow progress
round the room, an interminable period, Salmoros stopped before them
and bowed over the Countess's outstretched hand.
"Delighted to see you, dear lady. I have just met Mosenstein, who
always arranges the programme. There are not so many stars as usual
to-night, but he promises us some very good music."
While he was speaking the young Italian took stock of the great
financier. A massive head, surmounted with a mass of snow-white hair,
a patriarchal beard of the same hue, a tall, sturdy figure. Nello
guessed his age at seventy, but the brightness of his glance, the
upright form, gave little sign of age. He went by the evidence of the
snow-white hair and beard.
After a brief conversation the Countess turned to young Corsini.
"This gentleman wishes to make your acquaintance, Baron. Signor Nello
Corsini. You will no doubt remember him at the last Covent Garden
Concert."
The Baron held out his hand and his smile was very kindly. "I
recollect you well, Signor. You played very beautifully; you took the
place of Bauquel, who played our good friend Degraux a rather scurvy
trick."
Nello bowed. He felt very embarrassed. The Countess had discreetly
turned her head, so as not to appear to listen to their conversation.
The young violinist had, no doubt, something of a private nature to
impart.
"I have taken advantage of the Countess's kindness to make your
acquaintance, Baron. The fact is, I have in my possession a letter
addressed to you, a few days before his death, by a friend of mine, a
Monsieur Peron. Did you know anybody of that name?"
"Peron, Peron!" repeated the Baron, then he shook his snow-white head.
"No; that name recalls nobody to me."
"I have reason to believe it was an assumed one and that he was a
great friend of yours some years ago. I am charged to deliver it
personally into your hands."
The bright eyes took on an alert expression. "You have not got it with
you, I suppose?"
"No, sir, I would not risk carrying it about with me. Would it be
possible for me to see you at your office, or anywhere else, for a few
moments?"
The Baron thought a second. "Certainly. Come to Old Broad Street
to-morrow morning, say at eleven o'clock. Please be punctual, as my
day is pretty well cut up with appointments."
"At eleven to the minute, sir," was Corsini's answer. After a few
minutes' chat with the Countess, in which he tactfully included the
young violinist, the Baron pursued his tour of the drawing-rooms,
exchanging numerous greetings, for he knew every artist in London.