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 Bauquelclaque, 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 headback 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,bonPapa. 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 sweetof 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 man’s 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, andthen 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.
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.
Twoprime donneand a celebrated contralto had already sung. The twoprime donnehad 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 windowof 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 tooblasé, 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 littleromance 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—whatthe French describe asun amateur. The lovely voices of the twoprime 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 Prince’s 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 pauper’s 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 Péron’s 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 Papa’s papers. He said we were to open that cupboardafter 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 Péron’s dying injunctions, Nello committed to the fire. It was the dead man’s 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.”
“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.
Then there recurred to him the altered circumstances which had taken place since that letter was written.
Then he was just Signor Nello Corsini, unknown and poor. To-day all the newspapers, London and provincial, had blazoned forth his name as a brilliant and successful artist. Even the great financier would welcome a great musician.
And even if he did not, the Princess Zouroff, at whose house he had played to-night, the Countess, at whose house he was playing shortly, would secure him a personal introduction. It was a certainty that the Baron’s vast wealth enabled him to mix in their world.
A month had elapsed since the funeral of the good old Papa, and the note addressed to the Baron Salmoros was still in Corsini’s keeping. He knew from a postscript in Péron’s letter that no date except that of the year had been affixed to it, for obvious reasons.
The young man was considering his position. There was no doubt that the Baron had been asked to find him a post that would give a more assured future, remove him from the difficulties, the uncertainties of an artistic career. He was not yet quite sure in his own mind that he wanted to avail himself of this opportunity, if Salmoros offered it to him.
His month’s experience had been very satisfactory. An enterprising gentleman, keenly on the alert for new clients, had introduced himself to him and established himself as his agent, unfolding a rosy future if he trusted himself to his skilled guidance. Nello had agreed. This plausible person, obviously of the Hebraic persuasion, knew the ropes, Nello did not. Besides, he had come with a recommendation from Degraux, who had spoken highly of his abilities in exploiting young artists, who had set their first step on the ladder of fame.
Yes, the month had been very satisfactory, if it had not reaped quite such a golden harvest as Nello and his sister had anticipated. The agent booked himfor private concerts as hard as he could, but there was a great variance in the fees. Some were considerable, some very moderate. Mr. Mosenstein—such was the agent’s name—made light of the discrepancy. These were the anomalies incidental to the profession.
“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 willbe 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 colddoucheof 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 allsure 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 otherhand, 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 meagain 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 acachet.
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 fromanother 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, butat 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 greatamateur. 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.”
Lady Glendover’s prognostication of the Baron’s movements was a correct one. After what seemed to Nello, watching his slow progress round the room, an interminable period, Salmoros stopped before them and bowed over the Countess’s outstretched hand.
“Delighted to see you, dear lady. I have just met Mosenstein, who always arranges the programme. There are not so many stars as usual to-night, but he promises us some very good music.”
While he was speaking the young Italian took stock of the great financier. A massive head, surmounted with a mass of snow-white hair, a patriarchal beard of the same hue, a tall, sturdy figure. Nello guessed his age at seventy, but the brightness of his glance, the upright form, gave little sign of age. He went by the evidence of the snow-white hair and beard.
After a brief conversation the Countess turned to young Corsini.
“This gentleman wishes to make your acquaintance, Baron. Signor Nello Corsini. You will nodoubt remember him at the last Covent Garden Concert.”
The Baron held out his hand and his smile was very kindly. “I recollect you well, Signor. You played very beautifully; you took the place of Bauquel, who played our good friend Degraux a rather scurvy trick.”
Nello bowed. He felt very embarrassed. The Countess had discreetly turned her head, so as not to appear to listen to their conversation. The young violinist had, no doubt, something of a private nature to impart.
“I have taken advantage of the Countess’s kindness to make your acquaintance, Baron. The fact is, I have in my possession a letter addressed to you, a few days before his death, by a friend of mine, a Monsieur Péron. Did you know anybody of that name?”
“Péron, Péron!” repeated the Baron, then he shook his snow-white head. “No; that name recalls nobody to me.”
“I have reason to believe it was an assumed one and that he was a great friend of yours some years ago. I am charged to deliver it personally into your hands.”
The bright eyes took on an alert expression. “You have not got it with you, I suppose?”
“No, sir, I would not risk carrying it about with me. Would it be possible for me to see you at your office, or anywhere else, for a few moments?”
The Baron thought a second. “Certainly. Come to Old Broad Street to-morrow morning, say at eleveno’clock. Please be punctual, as my day is pretty well cut up with appointments.”
“At eleven to the minute, sir,” was Corsini’s answer. After a few minutes’ chat with the Countess, in which he tactfully included the young violinist, the Baron pursued his tour of the drawing-rooms, exchanging numerous greetings, for he knew every artist in London.
The next morning Corsini presented himself at the palatial premises in Old Broad Street where the Baron evolved his vast financial schemes. After he had waited in an anteroom for a couple of minutes, a slim young man, who looked like a confidential secretary, appeared from an inner apartment, and led him down a long corridor to Salmoros’s private sanctum.
It was a handsome apartment, beautifully furnished. Your feet sank in the thick Turkey carpet; the easy-chairs were models of artistic design and comfort. There were only a few pictures on the walls, but each one was a gem. The Baron was a lover of art in every shape and form, and one of the best-known collectors in Europe. In his business, as well as his leisure hours, he loved to surround himself with beautiful things.
Few, save a few old friends, knew anything of his family or antecedents. The name suggested a Greek origin, although of course most of his enemies would have it that he was a pure Jew. His fine, clear-cut features, however, had no affinity to those of that celebrated race.
He smiled kindly at the young man, and shook hands cordially with him: he had the greatest respect for all persons connected directly with the arts. After a few commonplace remarks, he asked for the letter.
Nello handed it to him, and at the same time showed him the glittering Order of St. Louis.
“This is one of the few things my poor old friend had in his possession when he died in that poor house in Dean Street, Baron. I have no doubt, in my own mind, that he was once a man of position and distinction.”
The Baron glanced at the Order, and nodded his head. It was evident common persons did not come into possession of such valuable things. Then he opened the letter, and read.
When he had perused it and laid it down on the desk in front of him, a strangely soft expression had come over his fine, intellectual face.
“My poor old friend Jean!” he murmured in a low voice. “How very strange! I believed him dead long ago. There was a rumour that he had been shot in those terrible days of the Commune. Poor Jean! My once dear friend Jean!”
“I am right in saying that the name of Péron was assumed?” asked Nello timidly.
The Baron bent his keen glance on him. “You know absolutely nothing of his real history?”
“For the purposes of identification, nothing, sir. The only thing that he ever let drop was that long ago he had been a pianist of eminence. That I could well believe, for even at the age at which I knew him, his touch was that of a master.”
“Ah, that is all you could gather. Well, my poor old friend was always a little fond of mystery. His real name was Jean Villefort, and he was one of the finest and most successful artists of his generation.You are a musician yourself; you must have heard of him, although, of course, he was long before your time.”
Yes, Nello had heard of him as one of the great masters of the past. “Then he must have amassed a great fortune, Baron. How came it that he died so poor and friendless?”
The Baron spoke slowly, in a musing tone, as if following the thread of his recollections. “Yes, he made plenty of money in his time; he had a tremendous vogue on the Continent and was a special favourite of Napoleon the Third; I do not think he ever achieved much success in England or America. I know he was greatly dissatisfied with both his tours in those countries.”
The Baron paused, much to Nello’s disappointment. He was eager to know all the details of the past life of this strange old man who had passed away under such tragic circumstances. Especially curious was he to learn what had become of all his wealth.
Salmoros looked up and caught the gleam of interrogation in the young man’s eyes.
“Naturally you are curious. Well, no doubt my poor old friend made plenty in his time; but he was very lavish, charitable, and open-handed. Still, his fortune could have endured the strain placed upon it by the possession of such amiable qualities. Alas! he was a confirmed gambler; the racecourse and the card-table swallowed up any surplus he ever possessed.”
“I understand,” said Nello. “And when was it,may I ask, Baron, that you lost sight of him?”
“He disappeared from Paris—you may say, from the world—about twenty-five years ago, or thereabouts. I was one of his most intimate friends, although he was about seven years my senior. From that day to this, to the moment that you have brought me this letter, I have never heard a word from him. His sudden disappearance was a nine days’ wonder, but the world rolled on and the great artist, Jean Villefort, was forgotten.
“That sudden disappearance, the abandonment of such a brilliant career in a moment of despair, was, I need hardly say, the outcome of a tragedy. Also needless to add that, as usual in such cases, a woman was at the bottom of it. The few details that filtered out enabled us to piece together certain things.”
“And the certain things?” queried Nello eagerly.
Salmoros spoke in his low, deliberate voice—the voice of the man who, with his vast experience of the world, had known and seen everything, and was surprised at nothing.
“Let me put it to you as shortly as possible. An elderly husband, married to a charming and beautiful young woman some fifteen, perhaps twenty, years his junior. The husband, a member of the old French nobility, a little dull, not gifted with any mentality. The wife, ardent, romantic, a lover of music and all the arts, not a single bond of union between her and her unappreciative husband. You follow me? You are an artist yourself. You will soon see the beginning of the romance that ended intragedy. In a very inspired mood, you could express it on your violin.”
Nello nodded. His life had been so hard up to the present moment, that he had enjoyed scant leisure to indulge in the softer emotions of life. But, in a vague sort of way, he could appreciate something of the tragedy of Papa Péron’s past.
“Tell me something more, if you please. I am very interested.”
Salmoros continued in his slow, deliberate tones. “Thefemme incomprise, a more or less bovine husband, a man almost as old as her husband, but ardent and impetuous, ten years younger in spirit than his real age. What happens? The woman falls in love with him for his genius. He bewitches her with his beautiful art. With his deft and skilled fingers, and by Heaven he was almost the finest pianist I have ever heard, he drew out from her her very soul.”
“Ah! I can understand he must have been very wonderful,” interjected Nello. “Even at his age, there were times when he thrilled me.”
Salmoros nodded. “You can understand the spell he would cast over a comparatively young woman. Well, let us get to the end of this. My poor old friend Jean sleeps in peace, why wake up those old faint memories?”
“But they are very interesting, Baron,” urged Corsini.
“I know, my young friend. Even I have a melancholy interest in them, because they take me back to the days of comparative youth. Well, to be brief—aromance in a nutshell. A violent altercation between husband and lover, a duel, the husband is wounded, not mortally, carried to his house. The charming young wife, innocent, or perhaps guilty, cause of all this dire misfortune, commits suicide. Jean Villefort, apprised of her tragic end, disappears. He might have thrown himself into the Seine. For days his friends searched for him in themorgueto no purpose. And, through you, I have at last unearthed the mystery. Jean Villefort did not avail himself of the coward’s resource.”
“Ah, Baron, dear Monsieur Péron—I prefer to call him by that name—was no coward,” interjected Nello eagerly.
“I quite agree. He left a world which held no further joys or triumphs for him.Mon Dieu, what a strange temperament! Why don’t these fellows make art and sentiment a part of their life only, and put in some common sense on the other side?”
“You speak from the great financier’s point of view, Baron?” suggested Nello shrewdly.
Salmoros smiled his slow, appreciative smile. “I see, young man, you have got a head on your shoulders. Well now, let us come to this letter.”
Nello was only too anxious that he should.
“I am waiting for that, Baron. Of course I can only guess at the contents that he has recommended me to you.”
“That he does in the warmest terms, and for the sake of our old friendship I am prepared to comply with his request. In this letter, which is not dated—he explains that by the fact that he does not knowhow soon his death will take place—he states that you are hoping to establish yourself as an artist, that he has already secured you a small, but fairly remunerative, engagement at the Parthenon.”
“That is quite true, sir.”
“Then, I take it, this letter was antecedent to your considerable success at the Covent Garden Concert. In that comparatively short space of time, your remuneration has gone up by leaps and bounds?”
Nello assented for the second time. “Perfectly correct, sir.”
“Then how do we stand? Of course, if you were quite a poor man, I would find you a post at once for the sake of my old friendship with Jean Villefort. But, candidly, do you want my assistance? I am not dissatisfied with my lot, Signor Corsini, I can assure you——”
And Nello murmured, half under his breath: “I should think you were not, Baron, you a financier of European renown.”
A whimsical smile overspread the other man’s features. “And yet I will tell you a little secret. Music is a passion with me. I am a financier by profession, but art, art alone absorbs my soul. I have tried, oh how hard! to be an executant on more than one instrument. Signor Corsini, I would pay you a hundred thousand pounds to-morrow, if you could teach me to play that exquisite little romance as you played it last night. I feel every note in my soul, but when my feeble fingers touch the strings, they are powerless.”
Nello looked at him compassionately. There was in his composition the hard Latin fibre; but here was a new experience for him. Here was a man who had achieved eminence in one of the most difficult professions, a man who could write a cheque for one or two millions. And here he was, lamenting his incapacity to succeed in an art for which nature had given him no equipment.
“It is very sad, Baron,” breathed the young Italian softly. “But in your case, the gods have given so generously. Why should you complain that they have withheld this one small gift, the gift of the executant?”
“You call it a small gift, do you?” replied Salmoros in his deep, sonorous tones. “I call it the greatest gift of all.” He paused, reflected a second, and then became again the man of affairs.
“Now, Signor Corsini, to your immediate business. How can I help you for my good old Jean’s sake and your own? What are your own views as to the present situation? Are you satisfied, or not?”
Corsini was quite frank. “In a way, yes; in a way, no. Degraux and dear Papa Péron both gave me very good advice——”
“The sum of which was——?” interjected the white-haired Salmoros.
“That unless you make a very great success, the artistic career is of all the most uncertain.”
Salmoros nodded his massive head. “I quite agree. Poor dear old Jean was shrewder than I thought. And yet, how simple in some things. Why did he not apply to me instead of drawing hislast breath in that miserable house? I would have given him an annuity for life.”
“I am sure you would, sir, but the dear old Papa was too proud to accept charity. Surely it was to his credit that he did not sponge on his old friends?”
“Just like him, just like him, a dear, kindly, impracticable creature. Well, now to your affairs. Do you want to stick to the artistic line, or not?”
“Not if there is anything better in prospect, Baron,” answered the shrewd Nello.
The Baron swept him with his keen glance.
“I am rather a judge of men. You seem just the sort of man who would make good. Let me think a little. There is something running in my mind. You might serve my immediate purposes, and at the same time, I might help you in your artistic career. You might have two strings to your bow. What do you think?”
“I am quite in your hands, Baron,” was Nello’s answer.
The mind of the great financier worked swiftly. He took up two letters, one in French, the other in Italian.
“Take these over to the table by the window, and translate the French into Italian and the Italian into French. Take your time, but do them well.”
Nello complied with his patron’s request. Salmoros was evidently a man who thought swiftly.
While Nello was engaged on his task, the Baron’s private secretary entered.
“The Prince Zouroff wishes to see you, sir.”
The Baron frowned. There were certain personsin the great world who were in his good books. The Russian Ambassador was certainly not. He knew a little too much about him.
He held up a warning finger to his secretary and crossed over to Nello.
“The Prince Zouroff is asking for an interview. You have played at the Russian Embassy; do you want to meet him?”
“No,” said Nello shortly; “I don’t think I do. I have heard that he is a bit of a brute.”
“Quite right, but, on account of his position, we have to cotton to him in a way. With your head over your desk you won’t see each other.”
The private secretary ushered in Prince Zouroff, the Russian Ambassador.
The Prince was a very overbearing and truculent personage; but he knew full well that even ambassadors have to preserve a modest demeanour, even as their sovereigns, in the presence of all-powerful financiers.
“Greetings to you, my dear Salmoros!” The Prince was always flamboyant. “The Czar has recalled me to St. Petersburg.”
Salmoros affected surprise. But he was not surprised in the least. He had received intimation of the news two days ago from the Russian Foreign Office itself.
“Ah, I have heard the rumour,” he said in his slow, suave accents. “You are to be Governor of Kieff, a post you have long been coveting, eh? I congratulate you, my dear Prince, although your friends in London will be very sorry to lose you.”
“You are mistaken,” replied the Ambassador shortly. “Though I have tried several times to obtain the governorship of Kieff my Imperial Master will not give it to me. It is my right by inheritance, because my estates are in that province. I hear that I may be appointed Governor of Archangel; in the meantime, I am to present myself at the Court of St. Petersburg.”
Salmoros did not betray by a flicker of the eyelid that the information was priceless to him.
Zouroff, after a brief sojourn at the Court of St. Petersburg, was to be advanced to the governorship of Archangel.
Salmoros knew what this meant. The Czar was as well aware of the fact as he was. Zouroff was a great nobleman, but also a traitor. The Government was going to proceed by easy steps. From Archangel to Siberia and life-long imprisonment would be a facile progression and create no great scandal, excite very little comment. Prince Zouroff would simply disappear, under this most autocratic of all autocratic governments.
After a short conversation the Baron held out his hand. In his heart he had a little sympathy for this truculent Ambassador, brute as he was, who was going to his doom, the victim of an iron and despotic Government. But perhaps his sympathy was wasted. Zouroff was a traitor, a man who would bite the hand that fed him.
When he had dismissed the Ambassador, he crossed over to the desk where Nello had just finished his translations.
“They are here, Baron. Will you read them?”
The Baron read them. “Very good, very good, indeed,” he said. “Now, Signor Corsini, I think you and I will have a little serious talk.”
The Baron led Nello from the desk where he had been writing and planted him in one of the numerous comfortable chairs scattered about the handsomely furnished room.
“Sit you down there, my young friend, while I talk to you. Now, these translations are very good, and they have started an idea in my mind which might result in something useful. But, in the first place, I should like to know something of your own views. Would you have any objection to leave England for a space, assuming that I could push your musical interests in another country?”
It did not take the young man long to consider. A musician is, or should be, cosmopolitan; to-day in London, next week in Paris, the week after in Vienna or Berlin.
“One country is as good to me as another, Baron, so long as my chance of a career is equal.”
“Good!” The financier looked at his watch. “It is now half-past eleven, and I have a deal to do between now and one o’clock. Can you see me again at one?”
“My time is at your disposal, sir. I will return at one.”
“By that time my ideas will have developed, and I may be able to put before you a definite proposition,” said Salmoros. “I have an unpretentiouslittle lunch served here every day when I have no outside engagements. You will honour me by partaking of it. I cannot speak very highly of thecuisine; it is quite simple, but I shall be able to give you a very decent bottle of wine.”
“A thousand thanks, Baron.” Nello smiled inwardly at his host’s apologies for the simplicity of the meal. This rich man did not know, and perhaps it was better he should not know, the depths of the poverty to which his guest had descended, how often he had gone to bed half famished.
At the appointed hour he returned. The same young man who had previously received him showed him into a small room, no less well furnished than the other.
A round dining-table was laid for two. As he had expected, it was to be atête-à-têtemeal. He had just time to notice the beautiful appointments of the table, the snowy napery, the rare old silver, the exquisite glass, when Salmoros entered. A moment later the meal was served, simple in its elements, but perfectly cooked.
The wine served during the few courses was champagne. The Baron had a couple of glasses at both lunch and dinner; he believed in its stimulating properties.
Then a bottle of claret of the finest vintage was put on the table, and the financier produced some perfect cigars. There was no doubt that Baron Andreas Salmoros had a great respect for his creature comforts. A man of the profoundest intellect, he was also an artist and an epicure.
“Now, my young friend,” he said as he puffed at his excellent cigar with every appearance of enjoying to the full its flavour and perfume. “We will talk. Help yourself to that claret; I can recommend it.”
Nello did as he was requested. His head was swimming a little from the unaccustomed champagne, but he had no desire to forfeit the Baron’s good graces by proclaiming himself a weakling. If this was how people in the great world lived, he must pretend to be used to it.
He waited respectfully for the great man to unfold the plan that would perhaps change his whole life and open out to him a new world. Of course he was shrewd enough to guess that whatever was proposed would be as much in the Baron’s interests as his own.
But he did not feel resentful over this. Philanthropists pure and simple are not generally found amid such palatial surroundings. Poor old Papa Péron had been one without doubt, and he had flung his money about right and left; wrecked his life for a sentimental attachment and drawn his last breath in a mean lodging. Emphatically Baron Salmoros was not of the same breed. He seemed kindly, and there was often a benevolent gleam in those clear, shrewd eyes. But for every ounce of help he gave, he would stipulate for a handsome return.
“I think, Corsini, we can help each other very considerably. I believe it is in my power to advance you in two ways; in the more permanent direction that my dear old friend, Jean Villefort, suggests,and also in the artistic way. I take it, the latter is really nearer to your heart. Even if your success has not been stupendous, you have set your first footstep on the ladder of fame.”
“I should be very sorry if I found it an absolute necessity to give up my musical career altogether, Baron.”
Salmoros nodded his massive snow-white head. “In that you have my fullest sympathy. I told you a short time ago what I would give to possess your executive talent. Well, I have been thinking considerably since you left, and I believe I can solve the difficulty.”
Nello followed him with the closest attention. To a certain extent he had found a fairy godfather in Papa Péron, for from the chance meeting on that snowy winter’s night had flowed his present success, his introduction to Gay, through Gay his meeting with Paul Degraux. Was he about to find a more powerful and influential one in this world-renowned financier?
“Suppose I sent you on a partly diplomatic mission to Russia, and at the same time insured you certain introductions which would help you greatly in your musical career—What would you say to that? Does the suggestion impress you?”
The young man could hardly believe his ears. Again his thoughts went back to the days when he had played in the streets for a few miserable coppers. And to-day he was sitting, an honoured guest, at the table of one of the greatest financiers in the world. He had to assure himself that he was not dreaming.
“I cannot think of anything more delightful,” was the fervent answer.
The Baron proceeded. “I want a very private and confidential letter—it will, of course, be written in cipher—carried to Lord Ickfold, the British Ambassador at Saint Petersburg.”
Nello bowed. This would surely not be a very difficult task.
“You may wonder why I should employ you on this mission. I could get it through a Foreign Office Messenger, as a matter of course, but he would be suspected, and my letter might be abstracted. They have some very clever people on the other side. You follow me?”
Nello assured him that he did. He was not at all sure that he did follow the windings of this subtle intelligence. But it would never do to let the Baron suspect that.
“Now, nobody will suspect you. It is well known that I am a rather generous patron of the arts, that I have befriended many a struggling genius; helped him upwards in his career. Poor old Jean Villefort has sent you to me, soliciting my influence. I have numerous friends in Russia. You consult me. I come to the conclusion that a short absence from England will whet the appreciation of those who have already recognised you as an artist of considerable ability.”
Nello nodded his handsome head. Salmoros was now getting on ground where he could easily follow him.
“I suggest that, with my introduction, you canmake a greater and quicker success than here—you can afterwards come back with a foreigncachet. At the same time you carry my letter, and put yourself at the disposition of Lord Ickfold and any friends he may introduce you to, on the diplomatic side.”
Yes, Corsini understood perfectly now. He said as much.
“I take it that, up to the present, you have not made a vast number of acquaintances. Anyway, the diplomatic part must be kept a strict secret between us, until I give you leave to speak of it. Perhaps I may never give you leave; anyway, to those few friends you have, give it out that you have seen me, that I have interested myself in your career and have advised you to go to Russia, where I believe my introductions will insure you an immediate success.”
“I understand perfectly, Baron. When do you wish me to start?”
“As soon as possible; the matter is urgent. But before we settle that, let me recommend you to pay a casual visit to Paul Degraux and tell him what I have told you to say. You need mention nothing about poor old Jean; he would not be interested in it, if you told him the story. Just mention that you were presented, which is the truth, by Lady Glendover; that you achieved the rest yourself.”
“I will pay a casual visit to Degraux to-morrow.”
“Right,” said the Baron, pleased to find his latest pupil was so quick. “Degraux is in with all the musical people, and what you tell him to-day will be whispered to a hundred persons in the course of the next few days. And having assisted at your début,he will be prepared to claim a considerable amount of interest in your success. Now, when can you go? I have told you the matter is urgent. What engagements have you got on?”
“Only two, Baron. One to-night, at Leicester House, the other three nights hence.”
“We can say, then, that you will be ready to leave England on the Monday of next week?” queried Salmoros.
“I shall be ready,” answered Nello quickly. Then he waited. The financier would surely say something about ways and means. He had saved a certain sum of money in the short time that he had been successful, but that modest store would not support the expenses of a Russian campaign.
But of course Salmoros was not a man likely to overlook such an important point as this.
“One does not travel for nothing. And I may tell you that in this enterprise, on which you are embarking at my instigation, there will be no lack of the sinews of war. I shall give you a considerable amount of money to start with. When you arrive in Russia, you will be well provided with funds. I can assure you that you will not regret having temporarily relinquished your artistic career here. Lunch with me again here on Friday of this week. I will have everything ready cut-and-dried for you.”