William Le Queux - The Intriguers

“Enchanted, Madame. I will present myself to you to-morrow evening. Will you forgive me if I render you only very brief thanks at the moment? I have a very dear friend, I fear at the point of death, to whom I must hasten.”

The grey-haired Princess inclined her head graciously. “Pray do not wait a moment. I am sorry such trouble is awaiting you on the night of so great a success.”

Nello raised his hat and was moving away, when the charming girl leaned forward and spoke impetuously.

“One second, Signor; we might be of assistance to you. Will you please give me the name of your friend, and his address?” She had recognised him the moment he appeared on the platform as the wandering musician she had passed on her way to the Royalty Theatre.

She turned eagerly to the Princess, her mother. “We might send our own doctor, Sir Charles Fowler, he is so very clever. Perhaps this gentleman’s friend has not had the best medical advice.”

The Princess assented graciously. She was a very kind-hearted woman, if not quite so enthusiastic in works of charity as her more impulsive daughter.

Nello, with burning cheeks, gave the name of poor old Papa Péron and the number of the small house in Dean Street. His cheeks flamed, because he was wondering if she had recognised him as he had remembered her. It was evident she thought he was poor by that remark about the best medical advice.

He thanked both the ladies in a low tone, and for the second time turned away. The man, Prince Zouroff, who had been fidgeting impatiently during the short interview, leaned out of the window of the carriage, and in a sharp, angry voice commanded the coachman to drive on.

Ho sank back in his seat and darted a glance of contempt, first at his sister, then at his mother.

“Your foolish sentimentality makes me sick, Nada. And I am surprised at you for abetting her in it,” he added for the benefit of the Princess.

The Princess answered him in calm, sarcastic tones. “Would it not be better, Boris, if you left off interfering with every word and act of poor little Nada? If she has too much compassion, you redress the balance by having none.”

Nello hastened with quick strides in the direction of Dean Street. His one fear was that Péron might have already passed away. It would be heart-rending if he were not alive to hear the splendid news.

But the vital flame, although very low, was still burning. The old man had had a long sleep, the sleep of exhaustion. By some strange effort of will, he had allayed the impending dissolution, had awoke about the expected time of Nello’s return, and was sitting up in bed, propped up against the pillows, awaiting the arrival of the young man whom he had grown to regard as a son.

“It is well, I can see,” he said in the low, husky voice that was so soon to be hushed for ever. “It is well. Triumph is written all over your face. You have scored an even greater success than you anticipated, eh?”

Nello sank on his knees beside the bed, at which his sister had devotedly seated herself, to watch the least movement of the dying man. He possessed himself of one of the long, wasted hands – those hands which had once made such eloquent music – and kissed it reverently.

“All thanks to you, my more than father. There was a trying moment. My first piece did not touch them much, and the Bauquel claque , as Degraux warned me would be the case, did their best to hiss me down. Then I set my teeth and vowed that I would not be a failure and return home disgraced. I played that little romance, with my variations. I finished in a storm of applause.”

“Ah!” sighed Péron amongst his pillows, a wan smile lighting his livid face. “That is your masterpiece. That would always stir the dullest audience.”

“And listen, dear good Papa. Degraux was so pleased with my success that he has paid me double the fee he promised. No more short commons for any of us. Little Anita here shall keep the purse and maintain us in royal state.” He threw his head back and laughed almost hysterically. “Oh, it must be a dream, a wild, mad dream. I cannot be the same Nello Corsini who, a few weeks ago, used to play in the streets for coppers.”

Then he recovered from his overwrought mood. There was more yet to be told to this kind old man.

“Then, dear Papa, I had an adventure – it was the first-fruits of success. As I came out, a tall footman in livery accosted me; he was to lead me to the carriage of the Princess Zouroff.”

Péron’s voice grew a little stronger. “The mother of the Russian Ambassador, Boris Zouroff. In the long ago I used to know her. Her husband was a brute. She has two children, Boris and a girl much younger than he. I have heard that Boris is a brute like his father. Go on, Nello. Finish your adventure; but I can guess what is coming.”

“The Princess is giving a reception to-morrow evening at the Embassy in Chesham Place. She has asked me to play, at my own price.”

Tears welled up into the old man’s eyes. “You are made, my son, but we must not be too jubilant. Artists are creatures of the hour. To-day Bauquel, to-morrow Nello Corsini. Take advantage of the present, but it will be wise to look out for something more permanent than the caprice of public favour, which dethrones its idols almost as quickly as it has crowned them.”

Nello started. There was in Péron’s mind the same thought that Degraux had expressed a short time ago.

The poor old man rallied himself for a last effort. “In that little cupboard yonder there is a packet containing a few private papers. You will destroy all except a letter addressed to yourself; in it you will find my last instructions. But you will not open that cupboard till I am dead. You both know as well as I do that it is only a question of a few hours. Well, my son, I do not regret; I have lived long enough to know of your success. And you have both been a great comfort to me. My heart was starved till I met you. You have taken the place of the children I never had.”

As he finished, there was a thundering knock at the door. Nello jumped up, remembering. Had not the Princess Nada promised to send their own physician?

“I forgot to tell you, bon Papa. I told them I was in a hurry to get back to you because you were so ill. The young Princess, a most beautiful girl, inquired your name and address. I gave them. She wished you to have the best medical advice. She is sending you their doctor, Sir Charles Fowler. I am sure that is he. I will go down and see.”

In good health, Papa Péron, in spite of his kind heart and still kinder actions, had a little spice of malice in him. He was not quite exhausted, as his next words showed.

“I know him well by reputation.” This remarkable old man knew of everybody, so it seemed. “Rather pompous and very suave, a good bedside manner, rather despised by his fellow practitioners. But he has a large and very aristocratic connection: he panders to their whims. But it was very sweet of the young Princess. Evidently she does not take after her father, she inherits the sweetness of her mother. Twenty Sir Charles Fowlers cannot keep me alive. But show him up, out of deference to the Princess. He is as much a charlatan in his profession as Bauquel is in his.”

Nello went downstairs into the shabby sitting-room, where the slatternly maid had just shown in the popular physician.

Sir Charles addressed the young musician in his most bland and courteous accents. He must privately have been very annoyed to be sent at this time of night to such an obscure patient, but he did not betray his annoyance. The Princess Zouroff and her daughter were demi-goddesses to him. Their whims were equivalent to a Royal command.

“Signor Corsini, I presume? The Princess has told me over the ’phone of your great success to-night; I congratulate you. She has sent me to see a friend of yours, who I understand is seriously ill. Of course it is not very strict professional etiquette that I should intrude myself without a request from his local doctor. But the Princess is a little autocratic, and will be obeyed.” He waved his plump hands deprecatingly, in well-bred apology for the unaccountable vagaries of the aristocracy. “Will you take me to him, please?”