The substitute cornet player was a success but was also very expensive.
Clifford paid him thankfully, but it made a large hole in his meagre
weekly salary, and he decided to do without substitutes in future. He
explained to Elliott how it was, and the latter young gentleman, who
viewed Clifford’s infatuation for Claire with alarm, shook his head and
sighed.
“You can’t afford it, my son. Suppose you hadn’t been able to get a
cornet player? Bobinot would have bounced you.”
“Now I am not so sure of that,” said Clifford, who had been consulting
Claire. “I understand that the leader of the orchestra—what’s his name—”
—“Bock—”
—“Bock,—I understand that he’s generally drunk and can’t tell whether one
or two cornets are playing.”
“But he would see your empty place.”
“I could get any ordinary man to sit there,—Selby would do it for the
lark. If he pretended to play, Bock wouldn’t know the difference. I had
to pay that substitute of mine twenty francs. Kid Selby would do it to
oblige me.”
“And he could stuff the cornet with cotton,” suggested Elliott.
“Exactly—Bock would never know. So any time we want a vacation we’ll call
on Selby, stuff his cornet with cotton, and let him blow his cheeks out
while the other man does the playing? Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get Kid Selby—it’s my turn for a vacation to-night,”
replied Elliott laughing, and walked out, slamming the great doors.
Clifford opened his desk, took out a pile of manuscript, and, thrusting
them into his pocket, hurried upstairs to begin his daily collaboration
with his fair neighbour. Time flew for them, but the “Queen of Siam” was
slowly taking the shape of a curtain-raiser whose fate would soon be
determined. The lyrics were fortunately few, and of course Claire rhymed
them, for poetry in French was beyond Clifford’s ken. And she rhymed them
charmingly, setting them to the music of quaint old songs that all France
knows. Clifford hung breathlessly over the piano, gaping with admiration.
Monsieur Bobinot had read the piece and had found it suitable,—so
suitable in fact, that for a long time he refused to believe that
Clifford could be the author.
“Voyons, confess he hashed it up from some old vaudeville!” he repeated
to Mademoiselle Plessis, until at last he was constrained to accept it as
original. Of course he cast Claire for the “Queen”; she refused to stir
a step unless he did; and the other parts were given to Mesdames Paule
Nevers, Bonelly, Mario-Widmer, and to Messieurs Max, Bourdielle, Deberg,
Bayard, Brunet, and Simon. Naturally Max was cast for the Archbishop of
Ept, and Bayard for the King, while Bourdeille’s character, “Syleuse,”
was written entirely with the view that he should create the rôle.
Bobinot grumbled. It seemed to him that he had nothing to say about
anything in his own theatre, but Mademoiselle Plessis had her way and
the property man and costumer were already at work on the designs that
Elliott furnished gratis. Deberg orchestrated the score.
“It would cost me,” shouted Bobinot in a fury, as he blue-pencilled
Elliott’s voluminous directions on each drawing,—“it would cost me more
than my theatre is worth to make these costumes according to Monsieur
Elliott’s advice. He can save himself literary work, and me several
sous worth of blue pencil by sticking to his designing and leaving the
execution to a man who wears a head in the proper place!”
The Théâtre Bobinot was flourishing. The “Serment d’Amour,” “Princess des
Canaries,” “Mignapour,” “Le Jour et la Nuit,” followed successively “Le
Panache,” and “Pomme d’Api” of Offenbach; and already in the programme
of “Les Domestiques,” the comedy by Grangé and Deslandes, appeared the
announcement of the preparations for “The Queen of Siam.” “A comedy in
three acts by M. Foxhall Clifford and Mlle. Claire Plessis;” for, at
Bobinot’s demand, the “lever de rideau,” had been expanded into a three
act musical comedy.
Bobinot said very little in praise of it either to Clifford or to Claire,
but he bragged about it to everybody else in the Latin Quarter as well
as in the Montparnasse Quarter. He refused to pay any cash for it, but
signed a contract for a generous royalty, and Clifford and Claire were
more than satisfied. The former promised princely sums to Elliott for
his costume designs as soon as the money began to pour in. Elliott was
grateful and redoubled his pages of instructions for Bobinot, whose
curses rang loud and deep as he slashed through them with his blue pencil.
Clifford took a good many days off from the orchestra, and, finding that
a cotton-stuffed cornet in the hands of the untutored and unmusical Selby
was perfectly satisfactory, took more days off. Selby for his part, liked
the fun and became the envy of the Quarter. At times, however, Clifford
had slight clashes with Elliott when they both wanted the same night off.
“Come, come,” Clifford would urge, “Claire isn’t on to-night you know,
and I’ve promised to dine with her at Thirion’s.”
“And I’ve promised Colette to meet her at the Vachette.”
“But you can meet her there to-morrow and I can’t meet Claire because she
takes Nevers’ place in ‘Pomme d’Api.’”
Then Elliott would mutter; “the deuce take you and Claire!” But he
always gave in and tootled away in the orchestra, while Selby, the
delighted substitute beside him, puffed and perspired over a noiseless
cotton-stuffed cornet. Bock, the besotted, never doubted that both
cornets were playing.
“Thank goodness this won’t last,” thought Elliott; “our three months’
poverty is up on Monday and then!—then this cursed orchestra can go to
the devil!”
Rat-tat-tat—! rattled Bock’s baton as he glanced at Elliott.
“Oh you old ass!” grumbled Elliott, toot! toot!—“go to
Guinea!”—toot—toot—tootle—too-o-ot.