William Le Queux - The Intriguers

Nello groaned. The dress-clothes which Papa Péron had purchased for the engagement at the Parthenon had found their way to the pawn-brokers a few days ago, to provide food. What a fool he had been not to make a clean breast of it to Degraux and ask for a few pounds in advance!

“It crossed my mind to ask for a loan, and I was afraid I might offend him,” explained the young man.

“Quite right, my dear son, quite right. Those wealthy men are peculiar. We will not trouble this rich gentleman. There are other ways.”

He pointed his thin hand to a little cupboard standing against the wall. “Go and open the door. Within I have a small private box where I keep my papers. Bring it to me, please.”

Nello obeyed, and carried to him a beautiful little antique casket of ebony, inlaid with tortoise-shell and silver, with some cipher letters on the lid. The old man opened it with a key which he wore attached to a ribbon round his neck.

From the small box he carefully produced an antique ring with a tiny miniature portrait, exquisitely painted and set with diamonds. This he pressed reverently to his lips, and then handed it to the young man, saying:

“This is the likeness of my honoured Master, my Emperor Napoleon the Third – given to me with his own hand.”

He took out a jewelled star, all tarnished. “This is the Order of the Chevalier of St. Louis, bestowed upon me for my services to – ” He could not finish his sentence; the tears were rolling down his thin, wasted cheeks.

Brother and sister exchanged a swift glance across the bed. Evidently, Monsieur Péron had, at one time, been a personage of some importance. Sovereigns did not bestow such gifts upon undistinguished people.

“Take that ring and the Order,” commanded the old man in his feeble, husky voice. “Go and pawn them. If you cannot get enough by pawning, sell them outright. And buy a dress-suit with the money to-day.”

Both Nello and his sister protested. These two objects and the piano were all that the old man had preserved out of his brilliant past.

Corsini spoke. “Listen, dear Papa! You would not part with these when we had not enough to eat. I can understand what they represent to you. Do not worry about me. I will go to Degraux in a couple of days and explain the situation. Even if he is annoyed, he will have gone too far to recede.”

But Péron was persistent. A flash of his old imperiousness came back to him.

“Go and do as I tell you. My days are numbered. My one hope is that I may live to see you successful. Go and dress yourself properly. Let me hear of your success before I die; that is all I wish.”

The strain of the interview had been too much for him. Taken with a violent fit of coughing, he sank back exhausted on his pillow. Anita pointed to the door.

“You cannot disobey his wishes. Come back and tell him you have done what he asked you. It may give him a few days more of life.”

The young man, fearing the old man’s death, rushed round to the nearest pawnbroker in Wardour Street. Upon the ring alone he raised sufficient to hire a dress-suit at a neighbouring costumier’s. On his return he was overjoyed to find that the poor Papa had rallied from his exhaustion.

On the night of the concert Nello came into the old man’s room to bid him good-night. Péron drew him towards him and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Courage, my son, courage!” Alas! every day the voice was getting feebler. “You play at the end that little romance with your own variations. Au revoir. I shall be awake when you return to hear the news. Anita and I will not have a wink of sleep till you come back.”

“ Au revoir, bon Papa!” was Nello’s parting greeting.

Papa Péron raised himself in his bed, shook his hand at the air and almost shouted after him: “And if you do not outplay that charlatan, Bauquel, I will never forgive you.”

Nello stood facing the big and fashionable audience. A celebrated accompanist was already seated at the piano. There was perfect silence in the vast assembly. In a few seconds the pianist would strike the opening chords, and Nello Corsini, the unknown violinist, must justify the faith that had been placed in him by Paul Degraux.

He felt sick and a little faint. As he looked dimly into that vast sea of expectant faces, he realised the ordeal to which he was exposed. In the little room in Dean Street, with Papa Péron and his worshipping sister for an audience, it was not difficult to feel at ease, to pour out his artistic soul. Even to Gay and Degraux, in the privacy of their apartments, he had given of his best.

But to-night he was before a vast audience, critical and fastidious. Had they not already sampled many executants, many equal to himself, not a few superior?

The salient episodes of his later life floated before him. His meeting with Papa Péron, his introduction to Gay, the placid evenings when he had played at the Parthenon for a small wage, his accident and the miserable days that had supervened, his desperate visit to the powerful Degraux, the marvellous success of that interview. And behind the recollection of all this, the memory of that dreadful time when he had played in the streets for a few wretched coppers to keep himself and his sister from want.

But to-night he was playing for fame and fortune, through the lucky chance of the great Bauquel’s absence. If he made good to-night, if he could secure the plaudits of this fashionable crowd, coppers would no longer be his portion, but sovereigns and Bank of England notes.

It was a brilliant assembly. In the Royal box sat the Queen of England, with the Prince and Princess of Wales. Peers and Peeresses were there by the dozen. Every other person was more or less distinguished. This was no audience gathered from the corners of mean streets.

As the pianist struck the opening chords, the mist cleared from the young man’s brain. Those upturned faces which met his fascinated gaze were no longer charged with cold hostility, but full of friendliness, of welcome to a new and untried artist. He drew his bow caressingly across the strings, and began.

The last plaintive notes died away – he had chosen to open with an exquisite romance of Greig’s. The applause was sincere, but it was not fervent. Degraux, standing anxiously in the wings, had to admit that it was not fervent. And then, suddenly, Bauquel’s noisy claque burst forth in a storm of hisses. They were paid by the popular favourite to howl down any likely rival.

The young man’s face went white as death. Was the chance going to be snatched from him? Would he leave the theatre a failure, to the disgust of the man who had befriended him and put faith in him?

The storm of hisses, hired disapprobation, died slowly down, countered, as it was, with a little decorous and well-mannered applause. The charming romance of Greig, though exquisitely played, had failed to really touch the audience. If the great Bauquel, with his well-established reputation, had rendered it, the house would have been in a furore.

Corsini’s next item was a piece by Chopin. Amid the din of the contending hisses and applause, the pianist beckoned to the young man and they exchanged whispers.

“Take my advice; leave the Chopin piece. They are not in the melancholy mood to-night: they want something brilliant, an undernote of pathos with a cascade of fireworks to relieve the sadness. Play that romance of yours, with the variations. Cut the theme as short as possible; use it as just an introduction. Get to work on the variations, those will fetch them.”

Nello set his teeth firmly; opposition, the suspicion of failure, had goaded him to fresh effort, to a fuller belief in his own powers. He remembered the good old Papa’s injunction: “If you do not outplay that charlatan, Bauquel, I will never forgive you.”