Selby pretended to fuss over the leaves of the score; he fiddled with his
cornet a moment, then he sat down and looked up at the house.
The audience was not what is termed “brilliant,” but the house was jammed
with the good people of the Montparnasse Quarter, sandwiched in between
hordes of Latin Quarter students, actresses, grisettes and vivacious
young persons who preside over the counters of the Bon Marché and Grands
Magazines of the Louvre. A first night always filled the little theatre,
box, pit, and gallery, and the announcement of the “Queen of Siam,” with
Mlle. Claire Plessis, Mlle. Nevers and Max and Bourdeille, had stirred
the Quarter profoundly.
Selby polished the mouthpiece of his cornet and called to Boissy, who
left his snare drum and came over.
“Where is Elliott?” he asked.
“Hasn’t come yet. Oh, you’re here to give Clifford a chance? It’s a good
house, isn’t it?”
“Great,” said Selby pensively, “I bet Clifford makes a lot out of this.
Here comes old Bock now.”
The leader of the orchestra, vinous as usual, emerged from below, wiping
his moustache, and walked straight to his seat.
“I wish Elliott would hurry,” said Selby nervously.
“There’s no overture,—Bock cut it out because the play’s long enough.”
“I know—I know, but there he is taking a last look at the gallery and
Elliott isn’t here. The thing begins with a flourish of trumpets to the
Queen.”
As he spoke, a figure came out of the little door under the stage,
holding a cornet.
“Thank goodness,” said Selby, “here he is now,—no! by jingo, it’s a new
cornettist!”
The stranger sat down in Elliott’s seat, picked pensively at some cotton
in his cornet, and smiled at Selby.
“Where’s Elliott?” said Selby hoarsely.
“In that box,—see him? He wants to witness the first act. He says”— But
Selby sprang to his feet, pallid with fright.
“Can you play a cornet?” he almost shrieked.
“No,—can’t you?” stammered the new arrival.
Before the wretched Selby could reply, Bock rapped for attention; there
came three heavy knocks on the stage floor behind the curtain, and, as
the violins began the “Air of the Petticoat,” the curtain twitched,
trembled, and began to ascend, exposing a brilliant stage and dozens of
glittering limbs.
Clifford in his box, gazed at the chorus in rapture. Then, as the chorus
began to sing, he felt a violent tug at his coat, and, looking round,
beheld Elliott.
“You!” faltered Clifford, “what are you doing here?”
Elliott’s face was shrunken with fright.
“Heavens!” he gasped, “they’ll miss the flourish! Those fellows can’t
play! I—I didn’t know you had engaged Selby so I hired a man in the
street”—Clifford was rooted to the spot; his eyes fixed on the miserable
substitutes below. Then his hair slowly rose as Max cried joyously:
“The Queen! The Queen! Hark—hark to the trumpets’ shrill welcome!”
A dismal silence ensued. All eyes were turned on the orchestra where
Selby sat frozen stiff with horror, while his companion, scarlet in the
face, cheeks puffed out and eyes starting from their sockets, blew madly
into his cotton-stuffed cornet from which no sound proceeded.
“Hark! The trumpets ring again!” cried Max, looking anxiously at Bock,
who, speechless and furious, waved his wand toward Selby.
“Idiots! Play!” he roared at last.
“We can’t!” gasped Selby. The audience screamed.
Claire coolly walked to the footlights, but the sight of Selby’s face
sent her into wild uncontrollable laughter.
Claire’s laughter saved the piece. The house stood by her from that
moment, and the “Queen of Siam” went merrily on to the sound of a
cornetless orchestra. For Clifford and Elliott and Selby had fled;—fled
away into the snowy night, far, far from the haunts of men.
* * * * *
This is a story of the Quarter, truer than it ought to be. You have,
doubtless, heard it before. It is not original with me. I myself have
heard it told in London.
Ah! when shall we be wise, Madame?—When shall we learn wisdom—we of the
Quartier Montparnasse?
I could tell you how Clifford returned and was forgiven by, Claire and
Bobinot,—but I won’t. I could tell you how Clifford presented his royalty
rights to Claire on the occasion of her marriage to Monsieur Bobin—but
there!—I nearly told you a stage secret! So I shall answer no more
questions—unless you care to know about Colette and Elliott and Selby.
Do you?