The Intriguers

Papa Péron smiled a little sardonically. “Of course you are. If you were inclined in other directions, you with your talents, your sister with her good looks, would have taken up more paying trades than this. What have you earned to-night?” he concluded sharply.

Anita answered in a faltering voice. “Over three shillings, Monsieur.”

The sardonic smile vanished. A look of infinite compassion spread over the lined face.

“My poor children. Virtue is indeed its own reward.” He turned to Nello, and his eyes flashed fire. “And that charlatan, Bauquel, gets a hundred guineas for a single performance. And he is not in the same street with you.”

“But Bauquel is a genius, surely, Monsieur?” ventured Corsini deferentially. “I have never heard him play, certainly, but his reputation! Surely he did not get that for nothing?”

He spoke very cautiously, for although he had not known Papa Péron for very long, he had recognised that under that kindly and polite demeanour was a very peppery temperament. If he were crossed in argument, the old Frenchman might prove a very cantankerous person.

Péron snapped his fingers. “Bauquel, bah! A man of the Schools, a machine-made executant. He never half understands what he attempts to render.” Again he snapped his contemptuous fingers. “Bauquel, bah! A charlatan? It amazes me that the public runs after him. He has a powerful press, and he employs a big claque. Voilà! On the business side, I admit he is great; on the artistic side, not worth a moment’s consideration.”

“You understand music, Monsieur, you are a critic?” suggested the young man timidly. Papa Péron was evidently a very explosive person; it would not be polite or grateful to risk his anger.

For a little time the old man did not answer. When he spoke, it was in a dreamy tone.

“Once I was famous as Bauquel is to-day – with this difference: that I was an artist and he is a pretender, with not an ounce of artistry in him.”

“Was your instrument the violin, Monsieur?”

“Alas, no,” was the old man’s answer. “Chance led me to the piano. I think I did well. But I have always regretted that I did not take up the violin. It is the one instrument that can sing. The human voice alone rivals it.”

After a moment’s pause, he added abruptly, “Are you very tired?”

No, Corsini was not in the least tired. The warmth, the meal of which he had eaten sparingly from motives of delicacy, the Burgundy, had warmed his blood. He was no longer the weak, pallid creature who had set out from his lodging to earn a night’s sustenance.

“Why do you ask, Monsieur?”

“If you are not really tired, I would love to hear that exquisite romance again, with one or two brilliant variations. See, in that corner, stands a piano of fairly good tone. I will accompany you, or rather follow you.”

Corsini, his blood aglow with the generous stimulant, the strange circumstances, rose up, took his violin from its case, and drew the bow lovingly across the strings. The Frenchman went across to the piano, opened the lid, and struck a few chords with a touch that revealed the hand of the master.

For the next ten minutes the room resounded with the divinest melody. The deep notes of the piano mingled with the soaring strains of the violin.

Corsini, strangely inspired, played as one possessed. And Papa Péron caught every inflection, every subtle change of key. Never, during the brief performance, was there a single discord. All the time the Frenchman, old in years, had followed every mood of the younger musician.

Papa Péron dropped his slender, artistic hands on the last chord. “My young friend, you are great,” he said quietly. “Success to you is only a matter of time. Another glass of Chambertin?”

Nello drained it; he felt strangely elated. “Ah, Monsieur, but your accompaniment was half the battle. When I faltered, you stimulated me. You must have been a magnificent pianist.”

Anita broke in in her gentle voice. The daughter of an English mother, she spoke the tongue of her adopted country very fluently.

“You put great heart into us, Monsieur. But when you speak of success, I remember that we have earned just about three shillings to-night.”

Péron, the optimist, waved his hand airily. “Look up to the stars, my child, and hope. I have a little influence left yet. Perhaps I can put you on the right track; take you at least out of these miserable streets. Sit down for another ten minutes; make a second supper if you like.” He guessed that they had not fully satisfied their hunger.

But this they resolutely declined. He waved them to their chairs.

“Five minutes, then. Tell me a little something of your history. I am sure it has been a tragic one.”

And Corsini, departing from his usual mood of reticence, imparted to the old Frenchman the details of his career.

His father, the elder Corsini, had been first violin at the Politeama Theatre in Florence, while comparatively a young man. He had quarrelled violently with the manager and been dismissed. Confident in his ability, he had come over to England to seek his fortune afresh. Here he had met and fallen violently in love with a young English girl, some few years his junior. She was a pianist by profession, in a small way. She attended at dances, played accompaniments at City dinners. Her income was a very meagre one. She was the product of one of the numerous schools that turn out such performers by the dozen.

They married, and Corsini soon discovered that he was not the great man he imagined himself to be. Also, he was of a frail and weakly constitution. Ten years after his marriage he died of rapid consumption. Madame Corsini was left with two children on her hands.

She was a devoted mother. Nello dwelt on this episode of their sad life with tears in his eyes. She worked hard for a miserable pittance; and then she was worn out with the strain. Nello and his sister, Anita, were left orphans. Nello had been taught the rudiments of the violin by his father; all the rest he had picked up himself.

After his mother’s death the rest was a nightmare. He had done his best for himself and his sister. That best had landed them in this snow-laden street to-night.

Papa Péron listened quietly to this young violinist’s recital, but he made little comment. Here was one of the numerous tragedies that were occurring every day in every populous city.

He rose and shook hands with the two. “You have a lodging to go to, my poor children?” he asked anxiously.

With a deep blush, Corsini assured him that they had a lodging to go to; he did not dare to give him the address. Dean Street was a comparatively aristocratic abode. Papa Péron’s humbly furnished room seemed a Paradise. And the piano was good – that must have been saved from the prosperous day – and was his own. No Soho landlady would provide such a piano as that.

Péron shook them warmly by the hand. “You must come and see me to-morrow. I shall be in all the morning. I shall think things over between now and then. I am a poor man myself, but I may be able to help you with introductions. I must get you out of these miserable streets.”

They walked home, wondering about Papa Péron. Who could he be? Anita inclined to the belief that he was a miser. Nello had his doubts.

Still very hungry, they bought some sausages on their way home and devoured them before they went to bed. They still had a substantial balance on hand, according to the thrifty Anita.

And the next morning, Nello was round at Dean Street to learn what Papa Péron had thought of in the meanwhile.

CHAPTER II

The old Frenchman had heard Corsini’s knock at the door. He stood at the entrance to his shabby sitting-room, the only article of furniture being the piano, his kind old lined face illumined with smiles.

“Courage, my young friend. I did not sleep very well after the excitement of your visit. Inspiration came to me in the middle of the night. You see that letter?” He pointed to a small desk standing against the wall. “Go and see to whom it is addressed.”

Nello obeyed him. His eyes sparkled as he read the name on the envelope. “Mr. Gay, the leader of the orchestra at the Parthenon.”

Papa Péron nodded his leonine head, bristling with its snow-white locks. “A friend of mine. He is a composer as well as chef d’orchestre. I have corrected many of his proof sheets for a firm I work for.”

Corsini pricked up his ears at this statement. He and his sister had been curious as to the old man’s profession. The mystery was solved. He was no miser, no millionaire, just a music publisher’s hack. And once, according to his own statement, he had been a famous pianist, with a renown equal to that of Bauquel.

“I have asked him to give you the first vacancy in his orchestra. He will do it to oblige me, for I have helped him a little – given him some ideas. It is one of the best theatre orchestras in London. The pay, alas! will not be good, but it will take you out of those miserable streets. Go to his private address this morning; I am sure he will see you at once.”

“How can I thank you?” began the young man; but Péron stopped him with an imperious wave of his long, thin hand.

“Tut, tut, my child! I want no thanks. I have taken a fancy to you and that dear little sister of yours. Now, listen; I have another scheme on hand.”

Rapidly the genial old man unfolded his plans.

“In my room there are two beds. The landlady has a little attic to let, by no means a grand apartment, but it will serve for your sister. You can share my room. Three people can live almost as cheaply as two.” There was a knowing smile on the wrinkled face, as the genial Papa enunciated this profound economic truth. “Come and live here. You can practise on the violin while I play your accompaniments.”

“But Monsieur, at the moment, we have no money,” stammered the embarrassed violinist. “Mr. Gay may not have a vacancy for some little time.”