The Intriguers

“The great thing is to get known, my dear boy, to be seen everywhere, in South Kensington as well as Belgravia,” the plausible agent had explained. “If South Kensington pays you less than Belgravia and Mayfair, never mind. Better take a small fee than stop at home, earning nothing.”

All of which went to prove to the shrewd young man that, if he had set his feet upon the first steps of the ladder, he had not, so far, mounted very high up. If the great Bauquel, who had now made it up with Degraux, condescended to play in South Kensington at all, he would demand a higher fee than he obtained in Mayfair, penalising the less fashionable quarter for the honour of his services.

Brother and sister, for Anita was no less shrewd than her brother, and had a fund of common sense, argued the matter out many times, now inclining one way, now another.

The present was distinctly satisfactory: it meant absolute wealth compared with the penury of the old days. The question was, would it last? Was he just, in a secondary sort of way, the fashion of the moment in certain circumscribed circles, to be shortly superseded by somebody who had scored in a night, by some fortunate accident, the same kind of sudden success? In short, should he take that letter to the Baron Salmoros or not? That was the vital question. In his undecided mood, he sought Degraux, who received him with great cordiality, but who had now made it up so effectually with the still powerful Bauquel that he had no opening for another violinist.

“Privately, my friend, I agree with your old Papa Péron that as an artist pure and simple you are the superior of Bauquel. But what can one do? Bauquel has got the name, he has ten years’ reputation behind him. At any moment he may be relegated to a back seat, but at present he fills, he draws. He is an asset to an impresario. In a word, he represents gate money. His name on an announcement fills the house. Five years hence, I predict it will be very different.”

Nello pondered these wise and sensible sayings. “Do you think it possible, Monsieur, that I could gain the standing of Bauquel? You have seen and known so much, I can believe in your opinion.”

The great director shrugged his shoulders. “You ask me a little too much, my friend. I cannot see into the future. You have made a very considerable success, you created quite a respectable furore on that night – but – ” he paused significantly.

“But!” repeated Nello quietly. “Please be quite frank with me. I want to hear the truth.”

“I cannot say that you have progressed much since that night. You ask me to speak frankly, and I should say, on the contrary, that you have gone back a bit. No doubt you are doing quite well at these private concerts – that is Mosenstein’s specialty. But, supposing I could ask you to play for me at my next big concert, which I can’t because Bauquel will be there, I doubt if you would repeat the success.”

“In a word, I am far from being in the first, even in the second rank?” queried Nello. His life had been so full of disappointments, that he had become hardened in the process. He did not seem as disturbed as Degraux had expected he would be by this uncomfortable cold douche of plain speaking.

“Fairly well on in the second rank. Mark you, I am not speaking of your standing as an artist, but just from the box-office point of view. You see, one can never tell what goes to the making of a first-class success. An inferior person often achieves it, a genius as often as not misses it.”

He did not mention names, but Nello guessed, while he was speaking, Degraux had the great Bauquel in mind, who, he admitted, was the inferior artist.

The young man looked a little downcast, in spite of his stoicism. Degraux clapped him on the shoulder.

“Now, my young friend, cheer up. After all, you are not doing so badly. Live as frugally as you can, put by every penny you can save. If things go well, still save. If they go badly, you will have something put by. You remember our last conversation here, eh? I told you to join, as quickly as possible, the ranks of the exploiters instead of remaining in the vast army of the exploited.”

Nello remembered that conversation well. Degraux’s advice had made a great impression on him at the time.

“That is precisely what I am here for, Monsieur – to ask you to give me a little more of your valuable advice on a very important matter. I am not at all sure about the rewards of the simply artistic career.”

“Tell me what is in your mind,” answered Degraux kindly. It was not the first time in his long and brilliant career that he had been called upon to act as the arbiter of a young man’s destiny.

Nello told him of the note addressed to himself, of the letter directed to the Baron Salmoros, whom Péron apparently claimed as an old and attached friend.

Degraux elevated his eyebrows at the mention of that world-known name.

“Salmoros! One of the greatest of European financiers. He knows the secrets of pretty well every Cabinet,” he remarked, when the young man had finished his narrative. “Your old Papa Péron must, at some time, have been a person of more than ordinary distinction. You have no knowledge of the contents of that sealed letter?”

“None, Monsieur. I can only guess that I have been recommended to the Baron’s protection.”

“Of course,” said Degraux. “It is a pity this very kind old man was not a little bit more communicative before his death, or in his last letter to you.”

“I think he was a little fond of mystery, Monsieur.”

“Evidently,” said Degraux drily. “Possibly, when you knew him – you told me the acquaintance was very brief – he had begun to go a little off his head. Well, let us see how the matter stands. On the one side, satisfaction with your present lot, with all the possibilities opening out to you. On the other hand, the presentation of this letter, with the chance of the Baron’s patronage. If we could only have a peep into that letter we should know better where we were.”

“But that is impossible, Monsieur. We can only guess that the kind old Papa has recommended me in the warmest terms.”

“Yes, we may assume that. Then, I think, my young friend, there is only one obvious course. You take that letter to the Baron. When he has read it, he will either put you off with smooth promises, or propose a certain line of action out of deference to his old friend’s request. If he should put before you any proposition that does not recommend itself to you, you can easily decline and stick to your present career.”

The advice was sound and sensible. By presenting the letter to the eminent financier there was nothing to lose. On the other hand, there might be something to gain.

“Unfortunately, Monsieur, I do not know the Baron personally. I understand he is a very busy man, and access to him a very difficult matter.”

“That is so,” admitted Degraux. “I know him just a little. I dare say you have heard that he is a great lover of music, and we have exchanged a few words now and then. But I fear my acquaintance with him would hardly excuse a formal note of introduction. But stay, you know the Princess Zouroff and Lady Glendover, at whose house you played lately. He is a friend of both. Either of these will give you what you want. If not, come and see me again and I will think of somebody I know fairly well, who will do it as a favour to me.”

“Both these ladies occurred to me,” said Nello. “The Princess is kindness itself; I am sure she would do it at once. But, in case of failure, I will fall back upon you.”

With many thanks for his good advice, Nello took leave of the warm-hearted director. Yes, Degraux was quite right. He would present that letter as soon as possible. He would write to the Princess Zouroff to-morrow.

But fate willed it that the Princess’s good offices were not required. He was playing that night at the house of a certain Mrs. Raby, who lived in Kensington Gore.

Mrs. Raby was a widow of about fifty years of age, of good family and considerable fortune of her own. When a romantic girl of twenty-two she had eloped with a man some twenty years her senior, who happened to be one of the greatest, if not absolutely the greatest, pianists of his day. For a long time her parents and friends held aloof from her. Artists were all very well in their way, but Constance Raby, with her money and good looks – she was an heiress through her godmother – ought to have made a brilliant match.

But Mrs. Raby loved her long-haired musician, the more perhaps for the fact that he was an Englishman, and never repented her choice. And in time, parents and friends condescended to bury the hatchet and came to her house, exchanging frigid courtesies with the artistic husband.

To their drawing-rooms flocked the élite of the musical world – great sopranos, great contraltos, nearly every artist of eminence. And in that charming house in Kensington Gore they gave for nothing what they demanded high fees for elsewhere, for was not the host one of their own world, and had they not adopted his charming wife as one of themselves?

Mr. Raby had died some ten years ago, but his widow still maintained the fame of those musical evenings. And to those who had still their way to make, an appearance in Mrs. Raby’s drawing-rooms conferred a cachet.

Mosenstein had secured an invitation for his young client. There was no fee. When Nello had demurred to this, not quite understanding the situation, the astute agent had silenced his objections at once.

“You do not understand, my young friend. England is a very funny place. A lot is done here for love. Mrs. Raby occupies a unique position. Supposing you were unknown, to play at one of her evenings would secure you a twenty-guinea engagement in South Kensington. Patti, Lucca, Nielson have sung there for friendship. Sarasate has played there for friendship. My friend, if you are wise, you will be glad that I have procured you an invitation.”

Nello made no further objection. Mosenstein knew the ropes as well as anybody. If he urged him to go to the house in Kensington Gore and play for nothing he had a wise motive. Mrs. Raby was evidently a power in the musical world.

The drawing-rooms were crowded, mostly with musical people. But there were a few others from another world; and amongst these, Nello presently discovered his patroness, Lady Glendover, who came here out of sheer love of music. The Countess had to pay five hundred or more for what Mrs. Raby got for nothing.

She greeted Nello kindly and invited him to sit beside her.

“Do you know many people here?” she asked, as she made way for him on the sofa.

“So far as I can see, nobody but yourself, Madame.”

“Oh, then, we will take compassion on each other and keep each other company – at least till you have to play. I suppose you are on the programme.”

“I believe so. My agent, Mosenstein, is arranging matters, and he will tell me when I am wanted.”

“Very well; until that moment arrives we can sit still and chat. I don’t know very many people either: just a few artists who have appeared at my house. The Princess Zouroff sometimes comes, but she is not here to-night. Some evenings, of course very late, it is as good as one of Paul Degraux’s concerts, when all the great stars have come on. About one o’clock in the morning they begin to warble and outplay each other. Of course you know Mrs. Raby married the greatest pianist of his day. They perform for her out of camaraderie.”

They talked for a little time, when the Countess suddenly exclaimed: “Ah, there is somebody from my own world, the Baron Salmoros. There is such, a crush, he does not see me. Do you know him?”

Nello’s breath came quickly. “No, Madame, but at the moment he is the one man in the world that I particularly want to know.”

Lady Glendover looked at him sharply, but she was too polite to inquire the cause of his sudden agitation.

“I will introduce you to him with pleasure; but it is no use running after him in this crowd, we shall never catch him. I know his methods, he comes here very often, he is a great amateur. He will exchange greetings with the many artists he knows, making a tour of the rooms, and then he will see me and come to a halt in front of us.”