Thanks to Colette and Claire, through the medium of Boissy, the little
snare-drummer, who lived on the top floor, Monsieur Bobinot consented to
give Elliott and Clifford a trial.
Boissy presented them to Monsieur Bobinot as two eminent American
virtuosi, but Bobinot sneered openly.
“Don’t try to stuff me,” he said; “they’re two students on their uppers.
What do I care as long as they can play?”
“They—they are very eminent”—pleaded Boissy—“their—hm!—technique is so
original, Monsieur Bobinot—”
Bobinot turned a pair of hard bright eyes on Clifford.
“En effet, Monsieur Bobinot, we are students,” said Clifford with
magnificent condescension; “but we can blow harmony out of a broken
bottle;—Elliott, kindly play ‘The Battle of Buena Vista’ for Monsieur
Bobinot.”
Elliott drew his cornet from beneath his overcoat and gravely performed
the stirring war march with hideous variations, while Clifford imitated a
drum with his knuckles on the window pane.
“Cannon,” said Clifford, banging on a sheet of tin which lay on the floor.
“Let my properties alone!” shouted Bobinot.
“Drums,—the Mexicans retreating,” continued Clifford serenely, returning
to the window.
“Humph!” snorted Bobinot.
“Cries of the wounded!” observed Clifford, and emitted a series of
piercing screams while Elliott continued his variations.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” wailed Clifford, winking at Boissy who had sunk helpless on
a chair, weak with laughter.
“Stop!” thundered Bobinot.
Elliott finished his variations and looked expectantly at the manager of
the “Théâtre Bobinot.”
“It’s d—n fine,” said Monsieur Bobinot, “but I could manage to exist and
earn an honest living without your artistic collaboration. I say I could
dispense with your musical services, but I cannot, Messieurs, afford to
lose from my personnel, two such splendid examples of human impudence.
Consider yourselves engaged. Boissy, I’ll pay you for this!”
“Then,” said Clifford artlessly, “let’s cement the contract with a
bottle!”
“Bottle of what?” demanded Elliott; “we haven’t any money! You mortify
me!”
Clifford smiled blandly. “Come, Monsieur Bobinot, no hard feelings you
know! What shall it be?”
“Whatever you like, Messieurs,” said Bobinot grimly; “I’ll take it out of
your salary.”
But Monsieur Bobinot was better than his word. He saw at a glance that
the young fellows were in earnest, and he not only acted the host very
decently, but, as Boissy dragged the two young men away, he handed them
each a week’s salary in advance.
“It’s for your infernal cheek!” he said; “come to rehearsal at ten!”
The first week passed without a hitch. Elliott played the orchestrated
scores for Clifford, and the latter, being quick and instinctively
musical, learned his part by heart, to the utter demoralisation of the
tenants on the upper floors. Mademoiselle Plessis stood it as long as she
possibly could and then sent for Clifford.
“Monsieur Clifford,” she said seriously, “this must stop.”
“If it stops _I_ stop,” said Clifford; “I can’t live on air.”
“No,” she said, “you are neither a chameleon nor an angel.”
“Not an angel yet, but on the floor below,” he said humbly.
Mademoiselle Plessis tapped her foot against the fender and brushed the
leaves of her rôle with the tip of one white finger.
“Mon ami,” she said, “I cannot learn my rôle if you toot all day on that
cornet.”
“What am I to do?” inquired Clifford miserably.
“You must have certain hours to practise. Monsieur Boissy plays on his
drum from two until four; Monsieur Castro chooses that time for trombone
exercise; why can _you_ not play your cornet during those hours?”
“I will,” said Clifford craftily, “but what shall I do from four until
six?” He looked at her with eyes that appealed and languished.
“Do?”
“Ah, yes! It will be lonely up there on the floor above—won’t it?”
Mademoiselle Plessis raised her clear eyes to the ceiling.
“Is it so very lonely down there? It is not,—up here.”
“Very. I think of you all day.”
“Of me? How foolish!”
“Yes; I wish I were able to aid you to learn your parts.”
“But you can’t—”
“I could if you’d let me read your cues—”
—“I don’t need that—”
—“Don’t refuse—”
—“I must—”
—“Don’t—”
—“But I do! And you are very silly.—”
* * * * *
So it was arranged that Clifford should bleat on his cornet from two
until four, during which time Claire would go out for a walk; and from
four to six, when Claire was at home, he might aid her by his presence
and advice and judiciously regulated sympathy.
“The idea!” she said, with a pretty gesture of disdain; “you will only
bother me. You had much better write me a little play.”
“A ‘lever de rideau!’” exclaimed Clifford; “by Jove, I’ll do it!”
“Can you write French well enough, mon pauvre ami?”
“No, but you can supply all the localisms and wit. Will you?”
“We might try,” she said with a doubtful smile. She was very much
interested, however, and when, a few days later, he brought her a rough
sketch of the “Queen of Siam,” she read it with serious interest.
“It is a pretty idea,” she said, flushing with pleasure. Then, resting
her chin on her hand, she invited him to sit beside her.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “if we are really going to
collaborate, we must be very grave and serious for _you_ are not working
for pleasure and _I_ am earning my bread—”
—“And honey,—oh! you’ll have woodcock on toast and champagne too if this
play goes!”
“Then let us make it go,” she exclaimed enthusiastically.
“Let’s!” he cried with equal fervour.
There was a pause.
“The play won’t go if you don’t take your pen in hand,” she said.
—“But I will—”
“Then hadn’t you better release my hand?”
And so the afternoons wore away while with heads together over the
manuscript they chattered about exits and entries, scenarios, cues and
“pan coupé’s” and Clifford rose to the occasion, displaying a wit which
matched her dainty cleverness and struck the quick warm spark of sympathy
between them.
“Delicious!” she would laugh at some hastily pencilled bit of dialogue,
and then, bending over the table: “Don’t you think that we might shorten
the King’s lines just here? See, I only strike out these three words—ah!
see how much better it reads!”
“Much better!—very much better!”
“Very much; it flows smoothly now—oh! oh! how funny to make the Queen
threaten them! How did you ever think of that?”
“Why, it follows naturally—you see she is all in armour, and the spurs
trip up the archbishop—”
And so the afternoons wore away.
This was all very pleasant, but it had its drawbacks and one winter
evening toward six o’clock Clifford jumped up and stared at the clock
horrified:
“Good heavens!” he muttered, “they are giving ‘Pomme d’Api,’ to-night and
I haven’t practised the music! What the deuce shall I do!”
“And you can’t read music at sight? Oh, what a shame! It is all my fault,
mon ami,” she cried in contrition.
“No it isn’t—only the afternoon flew, and I never thought. Bobinot will
sack me for this!”
“You must get a substitute,” she said, “it’s often done.”
“Where can I find one?”
“Ask Boissy, he knows lots of people who do that sort of thing,—there’s
his drum now! go down and see him—hurry—go quickly, mon ami,—Oh! you
mustn’t!—you mustn’t! There! my gown is all in wrinkles. I do not
wish you ever to return,—no, never,—go quickly now or Boissy will be
gone!—hasten!—ah well—then I will try to forgive you, mon ami.”
As he galloped down the stairs and out into the street he felt as though
he were treading on clouds—rosy clouds.
“Nevertheless,” he said to himself, “I must never kiss her again.”