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?
Corsini led him up the shabby, narrow staircase into the small apartment containing the two beds, in one of which the now successful violinist was used to sleep.
Anita was hanging over the bed, with a white face, the tears raining down her cheeks. In those few seconds of the conversation between her brother and the doctor, the poor old mans soul had taken flight to happier realms.
Sir Charles stepped to the other side, and his trained eye took in the situation at once.
Alas, my dear sir, too late! He has passed away, absolutely without pain, I assure you. But I could have done nothing for him. He is very old: a clear case of senile decay, aggravated by the malady from which he has been suffering. Your local doctor will give you a certificate.
He looked intently at the white countenance. Sir Charles might not be a very clever physician, as his less opulent colleagues were always very fond of affirming, but he had special gifts of his own.
A fine, intellectual head, a distinguished face. I should not be surprised if he had once been a man of some distinction. Do you know anything of his antecedents?
Nello shook his head. Next to nothing. Our acquaintance has been too recent for much confidence, but he has been very kind to myself and sister. I gather that he was at one time a very celebrated pianist.
His name, the Princess told me over the phone, was Péron. With the recollection of all the great artists for, say, fifty years, I cannot recall that name. We have here, my dear sir, a mystery, and probably a tragedy also. I will keep you no longer. A thousand regrets that my visit has been so useless.
Nello saw the plump, urbane man to the door, and then returned to the little bedroom where poor old Papa Péron, of the kind heart and the caustic tongue, lay in the last sleep of all.
CHAPTER V
His heart heavy with grief at the loss of his kind old friend, who had been to him and his sister a second father, Nello Corsini faced again a fastidious and critical audience in the saloons of the Russian Embassy.
Last night he had played to the élite of the fashionable world, made up of its many elements. Royalty, as represented by the sovereign and her children, the flower of the aristocracy, subordinate members of the financial and commercial world, distinguished persons of every profession.
To-night he was to appear before the smaller world of diplomacy and politics. But he was very confident of himself. If he had not failed on that vast stage, he would not disgrace himself on a smaller one.
The Princess Zouroff was devoted to music, as was her daughter. The somewhat brutal Prince, her son, could not distinguish one note from another like his father, whose death had been regretted by nobody, excepting his son.
The difference between father and son was very easy to define. The late Prince Zouroff was both brutal and brainless. The present holder of the title was of quite as brutal nature as his father, but he possessed mentality. In short, he inherited the brains of his mother, the gentle, grey-haired lady, whom he despised for her womanly qualities.
Two prime donne and a celebrated contralto had already sung. The two prime donne had united in a duet which resembled the warbles of two nightingales; the contralto had enchanted the audience with her deep and resonant notes; an accomplished quartette had disbursed exquisite music.
It was time for the turn of the violinist. Nello Corsini, his slim figure habited in the garments which he had hired from a costumier in the neighbourhood of Wardour Street, followed these famous personages.
He was so adaptive that, in this short space, he had learned to accustom himself to his environment. A few weeks ago he had been playing in the streets for coppers. To-night he was playing for higher stakes.
He darted his bright, keen eyes over the illustrious assembly, and his spirits rose, as they always did when something was to be striven for.
In a far corner he saw three men standing together and whispering confidentially. One was the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, wearing the ribbon of the Garter; another was that brilliant genius, too early eclipsed, Lord Randolph Churchill; the third was a slim, tall young man, who had taken on the dangerous post of Secretary for Ireland, still now with us, beloved and revered by all parties, Arthur James Balfour, who later succeeded his great uncle as Prime Minister.
In these far-off days the old melodies were the sweetest. Nello played first the Ave Maria of Gounod. He followed on with Chopin. And then, as a finale, he played that exquisite little romance which had floated on a wintry night out of the window of a house in Dean Street, with his own variations.
There was a subdued thrill amongst the audience. There was not the full-throated applause that had greeted him at Covent Garden; but he made allowance for that. The pit and the gallery had had something to say last evening: they were always ready to recognise a new genius. This assembly was too blasé, it was no longer capable of great emotion, even in the case of an artist of the first rank. But, in a way, they were subtly appreciative. At least, he had pleased them.
Nello Corsini, with his keen Latin mind, grasped the situation. Princess Zouroff had set the fashion. There were many more fashionable concerts at which he would be invited to play, at remunerative fees. But he also remembered that both Papa Péron and Degraux had pointed out to him the uncertain tenure of public favour.
Unobtrusively, he made his way out, but not before Princess Zouroff had thanked him warmly for the pleasure he had given them, and introduced him to a few notable persons, some of them hostesses as popular as herself, who had spoken gracious words.
And while he was talking to one of these exalted ladies, there had floated to him a vision of youthful beauty, the lovely young Princess Nada, attired in an exquisite dress of white satin, a single diamond star in her dark-brown hair, round her slim neck a row of pearls. These were her only ornaments. She reached out her slender hand.
Thank you so much, Signor. That exquisite little romance brought the tears to my eyes. We shall meet many times again, I trust, and I shall often ask you, as a special request, to play that to me.
Enchanted, Mademoiselle, answered Corsini, bowing low, and blushing a little. He was rather overwhelmed with these compliments from great ladies. The person to whom he was talking when Nada intervened was a popular Countess, the châtelaine of an historic house in Piccadilly. She had spoken of a concert in a few days time which she had invited the young violinist to attend.
A great artist and a very handsome young man also, murmured the great lady to Nada, as soon as Nello was out of earshot. He will very soon be the rage. Bauquel will want to commit suicide.
The Prince, who was talking to the Prime Minister, and always saw everything that was going on, had observed the brief conversation between his sister and the violinist. A scowl settled on his handsome face.
As soon as he was disengaged, he overtook the young Princess as she was on her way to speak to some guests.
Indulging in a little bout of sentiment again with this young fiddler, Nada? he inquired in sneering tones. Telling him how delighted you were with his playing, eh? What need is there to thank these hired artists? They are well paid, generally overpaid, for what they do.
Usually the Princess endured the insults and coarse remarks of her truculent brother with disdainful indifference. To-night she was a little unstrung. Like her mother, she was a passionate lover of music what the French describe as un amateur. The lovely voices of the two prime donne, the exquisite strains of the violin, had raised her to an exalted mood, in which she only wanted to think of things pure and beautiful.
The Princes coarse words and sneering accents jarred upon her sensibilities, and aroused in her a spirit of antagonism. She darted at him an angry and contemptuous glance.
You are more than usually offensive to-night, Boris. I suppose you have been indulging in your favourite habit of drinking too much champagne.
The shaft went home. It was well known in his family and amongst his friends that the Prince, in spite of the obligations of his high position, was far from abstemious, and had caused some scandal as a consequence of his unfortunate proclivities.
A dull flush spread over his hard, handsome face. You little spitfire! he growled savagely. I wonder when you will be tamed. Never, so long as our mother refrains from keeping a tighter rein over you.
For answer, the young Princess swept scornfully away from him, in her pearls and shimmering white satin, a dream of loveliness to everybody except her churlish brother.
Nello hastened home to his frugal supper in Dean Street, prepared for him by the capable hands of his little sister. A roll of notes had been handed to him on his departure by a slim young man, the secretary of the Princess. In spite of his natural grief at the death of the poor old Papa, he was jubilant, over his good luck. In two evenings he had made a small fortune. He handed over the precious roll of notes to Anita.
They are safe in your keeping, my dear one. But you must buy yourself some good clothes. Heaven knows we have starved and gone shabby long enough. But I cannot believe in it yet. It is still a dream.
Poor Papa Péron was lying upstairs. Nello to-night would sleep in an improvised bed made up on the shabby sofa in the sitting-room. Anita, with her usual spirit of self-sacrifice, had offered him her own attic, while she made shift, but, of course, he would not hear of that.
He had spent the morning in making arrangements for the funeral; they would bury the kind old Papa in two days from now. Happily, there was no lack of money at the moment. A week sooner, and a paupers grave might have awaited him.
Nello was very excited with his evening, and in consequence, wakeful. He smoked a cigarette, and Anita thought he would suggest retiring to his improvised bed after he had finished. But, to her surprise, he did not seem at all desirous of repose.
Are you very sleepy, little one? he asked.
As a matter of fact the girl could hardly keep her eyes open. The long watch by old Pérons bedside had tried her slender vitality sorely. But she was always ready to sacrifice herself to the slightest whim of those she loved.
Not in the least. What is in your mind, Nello?
I thought we might look through the dear old Papas papers. He said we were to open that cupboard after his death. I wonder if we shall learn who and what he was?
Nello went to the little cupboard and drew from it the ebony casket. The first thing that met his eye was the glittering order of Saint Louis, attached to a faded ribbon, which had been returned on the night when he had raised sufficient money on the miniature.
There was a very small bundle of papers, carefully tied up, for good old Papa Péron was nothing if not methodical and neat. There was nothing in the papers to reveal his identity. With two exceptions they were absolutely unimportant documents. These, according to Pérons dying injunctions, Nello committed to the fire. It was the dead mans wish.
The first exception was a letter addressed to Anita, dated a few weeks back, no doubt when he had prescience that the end was near. In it he told her that he had left everything in the world he possessed to her: the ring set with diamonds, which had not then been pawned, the order of St. Louis, and the piano. These would give her and her brother a little capital with which to carry on.
It was a very informal sort of will, although he had taken the precaution to have his signature witnessed by his landlady. But there was no next of kin to dispute the document, and Anita was the sole heiress of his poor possessions poor from the point of view of money value.
Two other letters were tied up together, the one addressed to Nello himself, the other marked Private and directed to the Baron Andreas Salmoros, 510 Old Broad Street, E.C.
The note to Nello, dated a few days after the more or less informal will, was short but to the point.
Péron informed his protégé, at the time of writing, that his artistic career still hung in the balance. That even if he achieved a certain success, his career was an uncertain one. It behoved him therefore to set his ambitions in other directions which might yield more permanent results. The letter concluded as follows:
There yet remains one person in the world who will still take an interest in me. For the remembrance of those days long ago, he may prove of service to you when I am gone. After all is over with me, carry this letter to him yourself. Trust it to no other hands. Of course you have guessed that Péron is an assumed name. If the Baron likes to reveal to you my identity, he will do so. It will matter no longer to me.
Nello gasped, as he laid down the letter. But dear old Papa Péron must have been a distinguished man at one time. He speaks of Salmoros as an old, I should say a great, friend of the long ago. Of course you do not know who he is.
Anita shook her head. She had never heard of the Baron Andreas Salmoros. How should she? Absorbed in her domestic cares, she never read the newspapers.
But he is one of the greatest financiers in the world, cried Nello eagerly. He is only second to the Rothschilds themselves.
And then it suddenly struck him that Salmoros was a very busy man, that approach to him was difficult. Péron had expressly said that he was to take the letter to him himself. If Péron had only written a private note introducing him, a note that could be posted! But the poor Papa had not thought of that, of course.