About this time Lavirotte made the acquaintance of Edward Fraser, a
composer of music. Fraser took a great liking to the volatile
Frenchman. He had him at his house frequently, and introduced him to
many professional musicians.
"You know," said he to Lavirotte, "I'd be delighted to do anything I
could for you; but the fact is, all engagements are made, and beyond a
few concerts I don't think I can help you much. You see, you want
leading business, and that's not easy to be got, at the best of times.
I don't exactly know what I'm going to do with my opera yet. But if I
decide to produce it this season, I'll certainly give you the refusal
of the tenor part."
This was a great hope for Lavirotte. He hastened with it to Eugene.
Eugene shook his hand, and congratulated him upon even a remote chance
of such good luck.
"It's a long way off, you know, even if it ever comes to anything. I
wish to goodness, Eugene, you had something of the kind to look
forward to."
"I wish to goodness I had," said the other. "But one must learn to
wait patiently. I suppose I shall get a turn sometime."
"I wish there was room for two of us in the new opera," said Lavirotte
dubiously. "You see, Eugene, as Fraser said, it's not easy to pick up
leading business, and of course, nothing else would suit you."
O'Donnell shook his head and laughed.
"Beggars can't be choosers," he said gaily. "We wanted a hundred a
night, you know, before we started from Milan; and now I'd be glad to
go on at a pound a night. I would not then have thought of taking
anything less than the first part. I would not now care to be tempted
very much with an offer of a second part, supposing the part was any
good. What is the second part in the new opera like?"
"From what I heard of it," said Lavirotte, "it's the very thing for
you, if you would take it--in fact, they are two excellent parts. I
heard two very taking solos and a lot of the concerted parts. If you
would entertain the notion, I'd speak to Fraser and introduce you.
"To tell you the truth, Dominique, I'd be glad to get anything to do
now. It's disgraceful that a fellow of my years should be taking money
out of my father's very narrow means.
"I'd be glad to earn four or five pounds a week anyway now. I suppose
Fraser would give as much as that."
"I'm sure he would," said Lavirotte. "More, I think. I have a notion
he'd give his leading man ten pounds a week, and his second, six."
"Well, if you could get me six, Dominique, I'd be delighted to take
it."
"I'll go back to him at once," said the Frenchman. "I won't lose a
moment, Eugene. Come, put on your hat. We may as well go together.
Chances like this don't grow on the hedge bushes. Between you and me,
I think Fraser would hurry his share of the work if he were satisfied
of being able to get good voices at this awkward time of the year. He
tells me he knows where to get an excellent soprano, but that until he
met me he was in despair about a tenor. A good contralto is, of
course, not to be hoped for, and a sufficiently good baritone and bass
will turn up, as a matter of course."
By this time the two friends were in the street, hurrying off towards
Fraser's house.
They found the composer at home. "This is my friend O'Donnell, Fraser.
You have often heard me speak of him. We were rival tenors in
Glengowra and Rathclare. We were fellow-students at the _Scala_, and
now we're going to be rival tenors in your opera, 'The Maid of
Athens.'"
Fraser laughed good-humouredly, and said: "All right. If, Mr.
O'Donnell, you sing as well as our friend Lavirotte, we shall be very
lucky in our tenors."
"He sings better," said Lavirotte, with a slight darkening of the
face.
"There is one thing I cannot rival him in, certainly," said O'Donnell,
"and that is generosity. I have no desire to compete with my dear
friend as a tenor. He said there was a second part in your opera which
I might suit. I haven't an engagement of any kind, and I am most
anxious to get something to do. I'd rather lead the chorus than do
nothing."
"Oh," said Fraser, "if you sing anything like as well as Lavirotte,
you must not think of leading a chorus."
"Sing him something, Eugene, and then he'll be able to tell whether
you sing better than I or not."
"I won't sing if you put it that way, Dominique," said O'Donnell,
colouring slightly. "You know very well I do not want to go into
rivalry with you."
"There is no rivalry at all, Mr. O'Donnell. Lavirotte is in one of his
perverse moods. If I produce my opera this season, he shall have the
refusal of the leading part. I have no one in my mind as the second
tenor. Now, if you'll sing me something, please, I shall be able to
tell you whether I think the music would suit you."
"What would you like," asked Eugene, standing up to the piano.
Fraser was sitting in front of it, running his fingers over the keys.
"Whatever you think best. Whatever suits you best."
"What shall I sing, Dominique?"
"Oh, a ballad," said Lavirotte. "Shall I start you?"
"Ay, give him a lead," said Fraser.
"The bright stars fade, the morn is breaking!"
"Damn it, Lavirotte, are you mad or possessed by devils!"
Fraser had begun the accompaniment. He turned round in astonishment.
"What on earth is the matter?" he said. "It's a good song, Mr.
O'Donnell."
Lavirotte was laughing slyly, stealthily, behind his hand.
O'Donnell looked furiously at Lavirotte. He was thoroughly roused. He
pointed at Lavirotte, and said: "He knows I do not sing that song. He
knows it puts me out to speak of that song."
The composer looked in amazement from one to the other. "Perhaps," he
said, "you will sing something else, Mr. O'Donnell? If you had a
breakdown on it once I don't think it kind of Lavirotte to remind you
of it."
"I never had a breakdown on it, Mr. Fraser," said Eugene, taking his
eyes off Lavirotte, and fixing them on the composer. Then he spoke
with enormous distinctness, "But, Mr. Fraser, whenever I hear that
song it pains me cruelly. It pains me as though you thrust a knife
into me."
Lavirotte ceased to laugh. His hand fell from before his face. He
turned ashy pale. "Eugene!" he cried, "you hit below the belt."
"No, sir, I did not," said Eugene, indignantly. "You hit me unawares."
"Gentlemen," said Fraser, "I am sure I am sorry any unpleasantness has
arisen."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Fraser," said O'Donnell, "I forgot myself for
a moment. I forgot where I was. Try to forgive me if you can, and to
show you I have dismissed the thing from my mind, Dominique, will you
forget and forgive?" he held out his hand to the Frenchman.
Lavirotte took the hand slowly, pressed it between both his, kissed
it, and said: "Eugene, I was wrong, you were right. That blow was
delivered unawares, as another blow you remember."
"That's right!" cried Fraser heartily. "That's right, men! Sit down,
O'Donnell, you're not fit to sing for a while. Stop, I'll play you
the overture to 'The Maid of Athens.' I have arranged it for the
piano.... Well, what do you think of it?" he cried when he had
finished. "I fancy I can hear some of the melodies on the street
organs, and to get my stuff on the street organs is the height of my
ambition. That is fame. That is glory. Now, O'Donnell, what will you
sing?"
"'My pretty Jane,'" said Lavirotte. "Sing 'My pretty Jane,' Eugene."
"All right," said Eugene. And Fraser played the introduction.
When O'Donnell had ceased to sing, Fraser turned round, caught him
enthusiastically by the hand, and said: "Positively lovely, my dear
fellow! The quality is perfection. Have you much of it? Enough for
the Grand?"
"I'm afraid not," said O'Donnell, shaking his head. "I could manage in
a small house very well. I haven't as much, you know, as Dominique
here."
"But the quality, my dear fellow, the quality is exquisite. It's a bit
of Guiglini."
O'Donnell coloured with pleasure.
Lavirotte said: "You never sang that song better, Eugene."
"It couldn't be sung better. Sims Reeves himself might be proud of
such an art. Tenors are hard enough to get, but to get a tenor with
brains and a heart is about the rarest thing in the world. You have
brains, and a heart, O'Donnell, and of course I needn't say that I'd
rather have a song delivered as you sang now than the biggest shout of
a forty-six-inch chested Italian _robusto_."
Lavirotte put his hand quickly up to his left breast. Again he turned
ashy white. He seemed to gasp for breath.
"Are you not well, Dominique?" cried Eugene, placing his hand on him.
"Ah!" sighed Lavirotte, "it's gone. For an instant the pain was great,
and I thought I should suffocate. It is gone now. Let us think no more
of it. You are in splendid voice to-day, Eugene. It was stupid of me
to get ill just at that moment when I should have been applauding your
success. Fraser, I told you he could sing."
"Sing! I should think he can. Try something else, O'Donnell; something
a little stronger."
"Very well," said O'Donnell, "I'll give you one of the melodies, 'The
Bard's Legacy.'"
Lavirotte shuddered.
"I don't know it," said Fraser. "Hum it for me."
Then O'Donnell began.
"When in death I shall calm recline,
Oh, hear my heart to its mistress dear."
"Don't sing it, Eugene," said Lavirotte. "It's a gloomy beast of a
song. When a fellow has just recovered from suffocation, it's not a
good way to cheer him to shake shrouds before his eyes. Sing 'La donna
e mobile.'"
O'Donnell lifted his eyes slowly, and stared in a puzzled way at
Lavirotte. "Are you ill still," he said, "or are you peculiarly dull
to-day?"
For the third time Lavirotte's face paled. "This time, I swear to you,
Eugene, I am only dull. 'Pon my soul, I am only dull."