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The Intriguers

by William Le Queux · English · Gutenberg #32770 · 451,334 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Intriguers

Author: William Le Queux


        
Release date: June 11, 2010 [eBook #32770]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INTRIGUERS ***




Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









 THE INTRIGUERS

 BY

 WILLIAM LE QUEUX
 Author of "The Doctor of Pimlico," etc.

 NEW YORK
 THE MACAULAY COMPANY




 Copyright, 1921
 BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY

 _All rights reserved_

 PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.




[Illustration: Madame Quéro was startled.]




THE INTRIGUERS




CHAPTER I


The scene was Dean Street, Soho, and this story opens on a snowy
winter night in the January of 1888. The modern improvements of
Shaftesbury Avenue were as yet unmade, and the foreign district of
London had still to be opened up.

A cold north wind was blowing on the few pedestrians whom necessity,
or some urgent obligation, had compelled to tramp the pavements laden
with snow. A few cabs and carriages crawled along the difficult
roadway to the Royalty Theatre, deposited their occupants and crawled
back again.

Nello Corsini, a slim, handsome young Italian, poorly clad, carrying a
violin-case in one hand, wandered down the narrow street, leading with
his other a slender girl of about eighteen, his sister, Anita. She was
dressed as shabbily as he was.

The snow was lying thickly on the streets and roads, but it had ceased
to fall a couple of hours ago. The two itinerant musicians had crept
out at once, as soon as the weather showed signs of mending, from
their poor lodging.

They had only a few pence left. The bitter weather of the last few
days had affected their miserable trade very adversely. It was
necessary they should take advantage of to-night, for the purpose of
scratching together something for the evening meal.

There were lights in several windows. It was, of course, far from
being a wealthy quarter; but there could be none behind those
warm-looking lights, safely sheltered from the cold and wind, so
wretched as these two poor children of fortune who would have to go
supperless to bed if they could not charm a few pence out of the
passers-by.

Nello withdrew his violin from its case with his cold fingers. Just as
he was about to draw the bow across the strings, a carriage passed
down the street on its way to the Royalty Theatre. Inside was a
handsome man verging upon thirty-five. Beside him sat a very beautiful
girl. Nello glanced at them swiftly as they came by. They were
evidently not English, but he could not for the moment guess at their
nationality.

They certainly did not belong to any one of the Latin races, that was
evident. It was not till later that he discovered their identity. The
tall, imperious-looking man was Prince Zouroff, the Russian Ambassador
to the Court of St. James's. The girl, about twenty, was his young
sister, the Princess Nada.

The young Princess was as kind and sweet-natured as she was beautiful.
She caught sight of the two mendicants, for as such she regarded them,
standing there in the snow, and a gleam of compassion came into her
lovely eyes. Impetuously, she pulled at the check-string, with the
intention of stopping the carriage and giving them money.

Her brother laid his hand on hers roughly.

"What foolish thing were you going to do now, Nada? Your
sentimentality is an absolute curse to you. If you had your own way,
you would give to every whining beggar in the street."

She shrank back as if he had struck her a blow. There was no love lost
between the two. He despised her for her kind, charitable instincts;
she disliked him for his hard, domineering nature, unsoftened by any
lovable or generous qualities. She put back the purse which she had
drawn hastily from her pocket. Her mouth curled in a mutinous and
contemptuous smile, but she returned no answer to the brutal words.

Nello played on in the cold and biting wind. When he had finished, his
sister had been the recipient of two small donations from the few
passers-by. The girl's heart already felt lighter. They could not
expect very much on such an unpropitious night as this.

And then, as the young violinist paused, from the first floor of one
of the houses close to them, there floated faintly into the air the
strains of a sweet and melancholy air, played with exquisite taste and
feeling.

Nello listened eagerly, while his heart contracted with a spasm of
pain. The man who had played that beautiful little melancholy romance
was as capable a violinist as himself. Alas, how different their lots!

When the sounds had died away, the young man resumed his instrument.
He played over twice that beautiful theme which had impressed him so
strongly, and then, as if inspired, wove into it a series of brilliant
variations.

He felt he was playing as he had only played once or twice before in
his life. Soon, a small crowd was gathered on the pavement, in spite
of the icy temperature. And when Anita went round shamefacedly with
her little bag, she met with a liberal response. Nello need play no
more that night, they had enough for their humble needs; they would
get home as quickly as possible. He had contracted a heavy cold from
which he was still suffering. To-morrow he could stop indoors and she
would nurse him, as she had so often done before.

She whispered the good news into her brother's ear, and joyfully he
placed the violin back into its case. The small crowd, noting the
action, melted away. The friendless young souls linked their arms
together, stepped on to the pavement and turned in the direction of
their humble lodging.

But they had not taken half a dozen steps when the door of a house was
opened very quietly, and an extraordinary figure stepped out and
beckoned to them.

"My poor children, it is a wretched night for you to be out." This
peculiar-looking old man was speaking in a very kind and gentle voice.
They noticed his face was withered and furrowed with the deep lines of
age. He wore a bristling white moustache, which gave him rather a
military air in spite of his stooping figure. He had on a tiny skull
cap to defend himself against the keen night air, but underneath it
his snow-white locks were abundant.

He turned to young Corsini, peering at him through his
tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. "You have the gift, my young friend;
you played those variations divinely. Our neighbour over the way is a
decent performer, he plays in a very good orchestra, but he has not
your fire, your brilliancy."

He fumbled in his pocket and produced a shilling, which he pressed
upon Anita, who shrank back a little. She had not always been
accustomed to this sort of half-charity.

The old man saw her embarrassment and smiled. "Ah, it is as I thought,
my child. But there is no cause to blush. If your brother were a
famous violinist and I paid half-a-guinea for a stall to hear him, you
would not think he had lowered himself by taking my money for the
pleasure he gave me. Well, I had my stall up here on the third floor!
there is a convenient little hole in the blind through which I could
peep and see the whole proceedings."

They both thanked him warmly, and were about to move on, when the
strange old man arrested them.

"Stop a second, my poor children. You must be numbed with standing so
long in that frosty air. I have a good fire upstairs. Come and warm
yourselves for a few moments."

His voice and manner were compelling. Wonderingly they obeyed,
although at the moment, they were thinking very intently of their
supper. Still, the night was young yet. They could wait a little
longer to make their purchases. Plenty of shops would be open. And a
few minutes spent at a bright fire would be comfortable.

He opened the door wide as they entered it and closed it behind him.
Then he skipped, wonderfully nimbly for a man of his age, in front of
them.

"Follow Papa Péron, that is what they call me in these parts, where I
have lived for Heaven knows how many years. It is a big climb and I
don't do it as easily as I used. But to children like you, it is a hop
and a skip. Follow me."

They followed him up the old-fashioned staircase into a small room,
where a roaring fire was blazing. He drew forth two easy-chairs and
motioned to them to seat themselves. He lighted another gas-jet in
their honour. He looked intently at their white faces, and what he
read there impelled him to a swift course of action.

He dived into a small sideboard. In a moment, as it seemed to the
fascinated watchers, he had laid a cloth upon the small and rather
rickety table, arranged knives and forks. Then he produced half a
fowl, two sorts of sausages, half a ripe Camembert cheese, and a dish
of tinned fruit. When all his preparations were complete, he beckoned
them imperiously to the table. He spoke in short, sharp accents, with
the air of a man who is accustomed to be obeyed.

"At once, please! You are famished with that dreary standing in this
arctic street, and it will be some time before you can get food.
Please fall in at once."

The sharp pangs of hunger were already gnawing the vitals of both
brother and sister, the tasty viands were inviting enough; but they
had observed the poorly furnished room. Monsieur Péron, in his small
fastidious way, seemed to have an air of distinction, but his clothes
were well-worn. Nobody could be as poor as themselves, but they felt
sure this kind-hearted old Frenchman was far from being well-off.

Corsini raised a protesting hand. "Sir, you have been kindness itself
already. You have warmed us, and we are very grateful, but we cannot
eat you out of house and home."

They guessed pretty accurately that these viands which he had produced
with such abandon, were meant to last some little time. The average
Frenchman is a small eater, and a very thrifty person.

Papa Péron beat the table impetuously. "_Mon Dieu_, do you refuse my
little whim? I am not rich, I admit. One does not lodge on the third
floor if one is a millionaire. That is understood. But I can show
hospitality when I choose. To table at once, my children, or I shall
be seriously displeased."

The old gentleman, in spite of his frail appearance, was very
masterful; it was impossible to resist him. Obediently they sat down,
but their native politeness forbade them to eat very much. They just
stayed their appetites, and left enough to satisfy their host for a
couple of days at least. In vain he exhorted them to persevere.
Brother and sister exchanged a meaning glance, and assured their host
that they had already done too well.

When they had finished and were back in the two easy-chairs, basking
in the warmth of the glowing fire, the old Frenchman went to a little
cupboard affixed to the wall. On his face was a sly smile.

From this receptacle he produced a bottle, dusty with age. He
performed some strenuous work with a somewhat refractory corkscrew
whose point had become blunt with the years. In a trice, he produced
three glasses and placed them on a small table which he drew close to
the fire.

"This is fine Chambertin," he explained to his astonished guests.
"A dozen bottles were sent to me by an old friend, since dead,
three years ago. In those three years I have drunk six--I am very
abstemious, my children. To-night, in your honour, I open the first of
the six that remain. We will carouse and make merry. It is a long time
since I have felt so inclined to merriment."

To this sally they could make no retort; they were still in state
of bewilderment. To a certain extent they felt themselves in a kind
of shabby fairyland. Was this strange old Frenchman as poor as
appearances suggested--or a miser with occasional freakish impulses
of generosity?

Papa Péron shot at them a shrewd glance. Perhaps he divined their
thoughts. Long experience had made him very wise, possibly a little
bit cunning.

"You think I am just a trifle mad, eh?" he queried.

With one voice, or rather two voices raised in a swift unison, they
disclaimed the insinuation. They only recognised several facts: that
he was very kind, very generous, very hospitable.

Papa Péron sipped the excellent Chambertin and fell into a meditative
mood.

"I lead a very lonely life, and youth, especially struggling youth,
has a great attraction for me. I watched you two poor children
to-night through the little peep-hole in my blind. _Mon Dieu!_ I
guessed the position at once. You had come out in the snow and bitter
wind, to try and make a living. You are two honest people, I am sure.
_N'est-ce pas?_" They had been speaking in English up to the present
moment, but momentary excitement, the stimulus of the Burgundy, had
made him indulge in his native tongue.

They assured him that they were.

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."

Papa Péron frowned ever so little. He did not easily brook
contradiction. "You are making difficulties where none exist. You must
lodge somewhere. My landlady only asks five shillings a week for the
attic. You share my bedroom and sitting-room. As for the food, you
will be my guests till you earn something. Do not say me nay," he
ended fiercely. "I am resolved that you shall play no more in those
miserable gutters. It is finished. You come here to-night."

There was no resisting this imperious old man with the frail figure
and the snow-white abundant hair. Nello promised that he and his
sister would move into Dean Street that afternoon. In the meantime, he
would take the letter of introduction to Mr. Gay, who had lodgings in
Gower Street, no great distance.

Mr. Gay was a fat, rubicund man with a somewhat faded and slatternly
wife. He read Péron's note and a genial smile lit up his massive face.

"Good!" he cried heartily. "My old friend vouches for you, and you
have come in the very nick of time. One of my men is leaving in a
couple of days--got a better berth. You can take his place. But before
we settle, you may as well give me a taste of your quality. We go in
for rather high-class music at the Parthenon. Play me Gounod's 'Ave
Maria,' I always test a man with that."

He called to the slatternly woman who was crouching over the fire.
"Ada, please go to the piano and play the accompaniment for this young
man."

Mrs. Gay complied with the request. Nello played the beautiful piece
with all his soul. Gay listened, attentively. When it was finished, he
applauded loudly.

"By Jove, you are great! Péron was right. He has not exaggerated. You
have had no chance, eh?"

Nello stammered that he had had no chances. He did not dare confess
to this prosperous person, composer as well as conductor of an
orchestra, that, lately, he had been playing in the streets for a
living to pay for his miserable lodging and scanty food.

They arranged terms with many apologies on the part of Mr. Gay.

"It is an insult to a man of your talent to offer such a miserable
pittance. But my hands are tied, and tied very strictly, I can tell
you. Turn up at the Parthenon on Friday night; you will soon get
something better. You can read music quickly?"

Nello assured him on that point. He could read music as easily as his
newspaper. The terms which Mr. Gay offered him were riches compared to
the few coppers he had earned in the streets.

That same afternoon he and the joyful Anita presented themselves in
Dean Street, with their few belongings. Papa Péron furnished a royal
supper and broached another bottle of the very excellent Chambertin.

There was, however, still the question of clothes. Nello had nothing
but what he stood up in, and the Parthenon was a very swagger
theatre. Péron was equal to the emergency. He took the young man
round to a neighbouring costumier's, and secured a dress-suit on the
hire-purchase system, at a very small outlay of ready money which he
advanced. For, although the good Papa was not rich, he was very
thrifty, and usually had a shot in the locker.

It was a very happy _ménage_; the old Frenchman was kindness and
geniality itself. He seemed to grow younger in the society of his
youthful friends.

And in time the mystery that had seemed to surround him vanished,
his means of livelihood became revealed. He was on the staff of a
couple of big music publishers. He corrected their proof sheets,
he occasionally advised on compositions of budding composers; but
needless to say, at this hack work his remuneration was very modest.

But he always appeared cheerful and resigned. He would drop
fragmentary hints of a brilliant past, when money flowed like water,
when he had mixed with illustrious personages. But he could never be
induced to dwell very long on this period, would enter into no
convincing details.

"It is gone, it is a feverish dream," he would say with a somewhat
theatrical wave of the hand. It was evidently a weakness of his to
enshroud himself in an air of romance and mystery. "What does it
matter who and what I was? To-day I am Papa Péron, music publisher's
hack, earning a few shillings a week at a most uncongenial occupation.
But, at my age, I want little."

Nello and his sister were happy too. The salary at the Parthenon was
not magnificent, but it was a certainty, and they were frugal young
people. No more playing in the sleet-driven streets, no more terrible
uncertainty as to the night's lodging and the next day's meal.

For a month they pursued this humble, but not uncomfortable life. And
Nello, who had no opportunity of displaying his talent in this big
orchestra, where he was one of many, played two or three hours a day
to the brilliant accompaniment of the old Frenchman.

And then the clouds began to gather. Papa Péron was taken with a
severe attack of bronchitis. Racked in spasms of severe coughing, he
was unable to pursue his humble and not too remunerative occupation.
He could no longer correct the proof sheets. The doctor's visits, the
necessity of extra and expensive nourishment, began to eat up his
slender store. The few sovereigns he had hoarded for a rainy day began
to melt rapidly.

This did not matter much for a while. The regular salary at the
Parthenon sufficed, with Anita's skilful management, for the three;
but there was no longer any question of putting by. Anita knew now
that she had been very mistaken in thinking the poor old Papa was a
miser. With tears in his poor old eyes, he had been forced to confess
that he had come to his last sovereign.

And Anita had cried too. "What does it matter, dear Papa?" she said.
She had grown very fond of the kind old man. "You took us in when we
were poor and friendless. Nello will work for you now, and I shall be
very careful. You will see how well I can manage on a little."

And so good old Papa Péron had his beef-tea, his little drops of
brandy, his expensive chicken. Whoever went without, he must not
experience want. And the doctor was paid punctually.

But misfortunes never come single. One very frosty night, on coming
out of the Parthenon, Nello fell on the slippery pavement and
seriously hurt his left hand. He went to the doctor on his way home,
and his worst fears were confirmed.

"A longish job, I fear, Signor Corsini. The fingers are very much
injured, and so is the arm. You are a musician, are you not?"

"A violinist, sir. If it had been the right arm instead of the left, I
might have managed with the bow. But I cannot play a note."

Mr. Gay was informed of the accident, in a letter from Anita. He was
genuinely sorry, but the theatre had to be served. He had to procure
another violinist at once. For four miserable weeks Nello ate his
heart out, and Papa Péron seemed to grow weaker every day.

When life and motion returned to the poor damaged fingers, there were
only a few shillings left in the house. Péron had announced that if
help did not come soon they must sell the piano, the one bit of
property he owned in the world. So, at least, he averred.

Nello could play now. He went round at once to Gay's lodging in Gower
Street. Could he be taken on again? The kindly conductor hemmed and
hawed; he was obviously very much embarrassed.

"We had to fill up your place, my dear chap, and the new man has
proved quite satisfactory. It is, of course, awfully hard on you. But,
you see, I can't sack him to put you in his place."

"Of course not," answered Nello quietly. Misery was gnawing at his
heart, but he was just. The man who was taken on had possibly been in
the same state of wretchedness as himself. He would hardly have cared
to turn him out, if Gay had been willing.

"And how is the dear old Papa?" asked Gay, trying to relieve an
awkward situation with the inquiry.

"He is very ill; not far from death, I fear," was Nello's answer. And
then the truth, which he could no longer conceal, flashed out. "And
very soon he will be close to starvation."

Gay looked shocked. He had experienced his ups and downs, but he had
never been in such a tight corner as this. He fumbled in his waistcoat
pocket and produced a sovereign, which he thrust into the other man's
hand.

"Terrible, terrible! I am sorry I cannot do more; but I am a poor man,
too."

Nello took it, but his face burned, it was such obvious charity.

"I accept it, Monsieur, with gratitude, and I thank you for the kind
thought. But can you help me to find work? I want to earn money, not
to beg it."

"Sit down a moment while I think." The kind-hearted conductor was very
distressed himself at the piteous state of affairs.

"I have it," he exclaimed after a few moments of reflection. "You have
heard of Paul Degraux?"

"One of the directors of the Covent Garden Opera?"

"Right," said Gay. "Well, Degraux is a big man now, but twenty-five
years ago we were playing in the same orchestra for a few shillings a
week. He is there, I am here. We have never quite lost sight of each
other, and I think he would always do me a good turn if it was in his
power. I will give you a note to him. Take it round to him this
morning. You will find him at the theatre."

Ten minutes later, Corsini was on his way to the great man. Gay had
written a most glowing and eulogistic introduction.

"The bearer of this note, Signor Nello Corsini, is a most accomplished
violinist. I have had him in my orchestra, but he is too good for
that. Give him a chance at one of your concerts and he will make good.
You know my judgment is generally pretty accurate. Give him a helping
hand and you will not regret it."




CHAPTER III


The name of Gay seemed one to conjure with. Five minutes after the
letter had been taken in, Nello was shown in to Monsieur Degraux's
private room.

He was a tall, handsome man, this musical director of the opera who,
twenty-five years ago, had played in a small orchestra for a few
shillings a week. His countenance was florid, he had a very striking
personality. Emphatically he was the type of man who gets on, who
shoulders his way in the world, pushing aside with his strong,
resolute elbows his weaker and more timorous fellow creatures.

He was always urbane, even when he had to say No. At the present
moment he had not decided as to whether he would say Yes or No to his
old friend's request. He was very much taken with the appearance of
the slim, handsome young Italian. His clothes were certainly shabby:
Degraux's experienced eyes took in that fact at once; but there was a
certain resolution in Nello's bearing, a brightness and animation in
his face, that showed he was no ordinary seeker for favours.

"Sit down, sit down," he said genially, "although I cannot give you
very long. I am a very busy man; all the day and half the night I have
to cut myself into pieces, as it were. And always, I am frightfully
worried. To-day I have been more worried than usual."

"I am sorry to hear it, Monsieur," said the Italian, sympathetically.
If he wanted to get anything out of Monsieur Degraux, he must fall in
with his moods. Privately he thought the director's worries, whatever
their magnitude, were as nothing compared to his own.

This plump, prosperous-looking person was not very close to
starvation.

"You know, of course, the name of Bauquel?" inquired Degraux abruptly.

"A great genius, Monsieur." In spite of Papa Péron's hostile verdict,
the younger musician had a great reverence for the celebrated
violinist, who was a popular favourite in every European capital.

The director snapped his fingers, and indulged in an angry
exclamation. "Not the genius that he thinks himself, not the genius
his friends pretend he is. He is very astute on the business side, has
worked his Press well, and always maintains a vigilant _claque_. I and
people like myself have helped him very considerably also by taking
him at his face valuation. Genius, certainly not; at any rate, not a
great genius."

Monsieur Degraux snapped his fingers more contemptuously, and reeled
off the names of a few rivals. "Those are geniuses if you like,
artists who disclaim his clap-trap methods."

Nello felt uncomfortable and apprehensive. The irate director was
evidently so occupied with the subject of the offending Bauquel that
Mr. Gay's letter stood in danger of being forgotten. And the great man
had especially said that his time was short.

"Monsieur Bauquel has had the misfortune to incur your displeasure,
sir?" he hazarded.

"I should think he had," cried Degraux furiously. "He was to appear at
my great concert next week; Royalty and the élite of London will be
there. Two days ago we had a little tiff, in which I admit I told him
some home truths. What happens? This morning I receive a letter, dated
from Brighton, in which he throws me over. Pretends he is ill and that
his doctor has ordered a complete rest."

"And you do not believe this to be true, Monsieur?"

"True!" thundered Degraux. "An absolute lie. A friend of mine writes
me at the same time from the Grand Hotel. He tells me that the
so-called invalid is staying there with a rowdy party and looking the
picture of health. The scoundrel has done it to put me in a corner.
And what is to become of my concert? I cannot put my hand on a
violinist of the first rank in the few days left me."

Nello stood up, his face glowing, his limbs trembling with excitement.
He pointed to Gay's letter, which lay on the director's desk.

"Monsieur, I beseech you, if it is not too great presumption, to let
me take his place. I may not make a sensation, but certainly I shall
not be a failure. And you will have so many stars of the first
magnitude, that a smaller one may dare to give a little light. You
have read what Mr. Gay says of me. I fancy he is no mean judge of
music and musicians."

Degraux was suddenly brought down from his heights of indignation by
this direct appeal. He looked keenly at the young man, but in his eyes
there appeared a humorous twinkle, as if he admired his audacity.

"You don't miss a chance, I see, my young friend. But it is a big risk
to run you in the place of Bauquel, and as soon as he gets wind of it,
he will send his _claque_ to hiss you."

Monsieur Degraux thought for several seconds, and the young man went
hot and cold. His hopes, his fate, hung upon the conductor's caprice.

Degraux touched a bell on the desk with the air of a man who had made
up his mind. An attendant answered the summons.

"Please send in Mr. Lemoin." He turned to Nello. "This gentleman will
accompany you, and you shall show what you can do. Remember, you will
appear before one of the most appreciative, but also one of the most
critical, audiences in the world."

Monsieur Lemoin appeared, a fat chubby person. He accompanied very
well; not perhaps with the assured artistic instinct of old Papa
Péron, who was a part of the piano he played so skilfully.

Degraux listened intently. He had told Nello to play the pieces which,
in his own opinion, he could render best. The young man finished with
that sad little romance which he had heard in Dean Street on that
well-remembered night, and into which he wove some brilliant
variations.

The director rose and spoke, for him, rather enthusiastically. "Yes,
my young friend, Gay is right. You are a true artist. Play that little
romance at the end; you are at your best in that. Play it as you have
done here and we need not fear Bauquel's _claque_. I engage you for
that concert. I will also boom you, but not extravagantly--just
judiciously--in the short time that is left me. Now about terms?"

He named a fee that seemed to Corsini to represent absolute wealth. If
he could only obtain a couple of sovereigns on account, to ease the
hard conditions in Dean Street. Degraux did not seem a hard man; it
was possible the request would be granted as soon as asked.

But prudence forbade. It would be the reverse of politic to plead
absolute poverty on so brief an acquaintance. Till next week, they
must draw their belts a little tighter. Well, experience had taught
them to do that.

He hurried back to Dean Street with the joyful news. He was to appear
before a most fashionable audience in place of the great Bauquel,
squandering his money down at Brighton in order to revenge himself
upon the too plain-speaking Degraux.

Papa Péron was sitting up in bed, Anita by his side. The poor old man
had had one of his good days, the cough was less troublesome. The
doctor had whispered as he went out that if the severe weather mended
a little, they might pull him through. He smiled happily as his young
protégé recounted what had happened.

"I have met Degraux once or twice in the years gone by, and I have
been told that prosperity has not spoiled him. But, my dear boy, there
is one little difficulty about that concert next week."

"And that?" asked young Corsini. He was so overjoyed in his new-found
fortune, that he could think of nothing else.

The old Frenchman chuckled quietly. "You will want an evening suit, my
young friend. One does not appear before Royalty in ordinary clothes,
and those not of the newest, does one?"

Nello groaned. The dress-clothes which Papa Péron had purchased
for the engagement at the Parthenon had found their way to the
pawn-brokers a few days ago, to provide food. What a fool he had been
not to make a clean breast of it to Degraux and ask for a few pounds
in advance!

"It crossed my mind to ask for a loan, and I was afraid I might offend
him," explained the young man.

"Quite right, my dear son, quite right. Those wealthy men are
peculiar. We will not trouble this rich gentleman. There are other
ways."

He pointed his thin hand to a little cupboard standing against the
wall. "Go and open the door. Within I have a small private box where I
keep my papers. Bring it to me, please."

Nello obeyed, and carried to him a beautiful little antique casket of
ebony, inlaid with tortoise-shell and silver, with some cipher letters
on the lid. The old man opened it with a key which he wore attached to
a ribbon round his neck.

From the small box he carefully produced an antique ring with a tiny
miniature portrait, exquisitely painted and set with diamonds. This he
pressed reverently to his lips, and then handed it to the young man,
saying:

"This is the likeness of my honoured Master, my Emperor Napoleon the
Third--given to me with his own hand."

He took out a jewelled star, all tarnished. "This is the Order of the
Chevalier of St. Louis, bestowed upon me for my services to----" He
could not finish his sentence; the tears were rolling down his thin,
wasted cheeks.

Brother and sister exchanged a swift glance across the bed. Evidently,
Monsieur Péron had, at one time, been a personage of some importance.
Sovereigns did not bestow such gifts upon undistinguished people.

"Take that ring and the Order," commanded the old man in his feeble,
husky voice. "Go and pawn them. If you cannot get enough by pawning,
sell them outright. And buy a dress-suit with the money to-day."

Both Nello and his sister protested. These two objects and the piano
were all that the old man had preserved out of his brilliant past.

Corsini spoke. "Listen, dear Papa! You would not part with these when
we had not enough to eat. I can understand what they represent to you.
Do not worry about me. I will go to Degraux in a couple of days and
explain the situation. Even if he is annoyed, he will have gone too
far to recede."

But Péron was persistent. A flash of his old imperiousness came back
to him.

"Go and do as I tell you. My days are numbered. My one hope is that I
may live to see you successful. Go and dress yourself properly. Let me
hear of your success before I die; that is all I wish."

The strain of the interview had been too much for him. Taken with a
violent fit of coughing, he sank back exhausted on his pillow. Anita
pointed to the door.

"You cannot disobey his wishes. Come back and tell him you have done
what he asked you. It may give him a few days more of life."

The young man, fearing the old man's death, rushed round to the
nearest pawnbroker in Wardour Street. Upon the ring alone he raised
sufficient to hire a dress-suit at a neighbouring costumier's. On his
return he was overjoyed to find that the poor Papa had rallied from
his exhaustion.

On the night of the concert Nello came into the old man's room to bid
him good-night. Péron drew him towards him and kissed him on both
cheeks.

"Courage, my son, courage!" Alas! every day the voice was getting
feebler. "You play at the end that little romance with your own
variations. _Au revoir._ I shall be awake when you return to hear the
news. Anita and I will not have a wink of sleep till you come back."

"_Au revoir, bon_ Papa!" was Nello's parting greeting.

Papa Péron raised himself in his bed, shook his hand at the air and
almost shouted after him: "And if you do not outplay that charlatan,
Bauquel, I will never forgive you."




CHAPTER IV


Nello stood facing the big and fashionable audience. A celebrated
accompanist was already seated at the piano. There was perfect silence
in the vast assembly. In a few seconds the pianist would strike the
opening chords, and Nello Corsini, the unknown violinist, must justify
the faith that had been placed in him by Paul Degraux.

He felt sick and a little faint. As he looked dimly into that vast sea
of expectant faces, he realised the ordeal to which he was exposed. In
the little room in Dean Street, with Papa Péron and his worshipping
sister for an audience, it was not difficult to feel at ease, to pour
out his artistic soul. Even to Gay and Degraux, in the privacy of
their apartments, he had given of his best.

But to-night he was before a vast audience, critical and fastidious.
Had they not already sampled many executants, many equal to himself,
not a few superior?

The salient episodes of his later life floated before him. His meeting
with Papa Péron, his introduction to Gay, the placid evenings when he
had played at the Parthenon for a small wage, his accident and the
miserable days that had supervened, his desperate visit to the
powerful Degraux, the marvellous success of that interview. And behind
the recollection of all this, the memory of that dreadful time when
he had played in the streets for a few wretched coppers to keep
himself and his sister from want.

But to-night he was playing for fame and fortune, through the lucky
chance of the great Bauquel's absence. If he made good to-night, if he
could secure the plaudits of this fashionable crowd, coppers would no
longer be his portion, but sovereigns and Bank of England notes.

It was a brilliant assembly. In the Royal box sat the Queen of
England, with the Prince and Princess of Wales. Peers and Peeresses
were there by the dozen. Every other person was more or less
distinguished. This was no audience gathered from the corners of
mean streets.

As the pianist struck the opening chords, the mist cleared from the
young man's brain. Those upturned faces which met his fascinated gaze
were no longer charged with cold hostility, but full of friendliness,
of welcome to a new and untried artist. He drew his bow caressingly
across the strings, and began.

The last plaintive notes died away--he had chosen to open with an
exquisite romance of Greig's. The applause was sincere, but it was not
fervent. Degraux, standing anxiously in the wings, had to admit that
it was not fervent. And then, suddenly, Bauquel's noisy _claque_ burst
forth in a storm of hisses. They were paid by the popular favourite to
howl down any likely rival.

The young man's face went white as death. Was the chance going to
be snatched from him? Would he leave the theatre a failure, to the
disgust of the man who had befriended him and put faith in him?

The storm of hisses, hired disapprobation, died slowly down,
countered, as it was, with a little decorous and well-mannered
applause. The charming romance of Greig, though exquisitely played,
had failed to really touch the audience. If the great Bauquel, with
his well-established reputation, had rendered it, the house would have
been in a furore.

Corsini's next item was a piece by Chopin. Amid the din of the
contending hisses and applause, the pianist beckoned to the young man
and they exchanged whispers.

"Take my advice; leave the Chopin piece. They are not in the
melancholy mood to-night: they want something brilliant, an undernote
of pathos with a cascade of fireworks to relieve the sadness. Play
that romance of yours, _with_ the variations. Cut the theme as short
as possible; use it as just an introduction. Get to work on the
variations, those will fetch them."

Nello set his teeth firmly; opposition, the suspicion of failure, had
goaded him to fresh effort, to a fuller belief in his own powers. He
remembered the good old Papa's injunction: "If you do not outplay that
charlatan, Bauquel, I will never forgive you."

And he played as one inspired. The violin, a legacy from his father,
sang and sobbed and thrilled as it had never done before. When he had
finished the applause was hearty and vehement. The hisses of the
Bauquel _claque_ could no longer be heard. The unknown young
violinist had made good and won the plaudits of one of the most
critical audiences in Europe.

Degraux met him in the wings and shook him warmly by the hand. "A
thousand thanks. I see now I was right in engaging you, in speculating
on a chance. Now, come to my room. You told me something yesterday
about certain things in Dean Street. Cheques are no good to you. You
want ready money."

Nello admitted that it was so. Together they hastened into the
director's private room. Degraux went to a small safe, unlocked it and
drew forth a roll of notes.

"See here, my young friend, you have saved the position. For the
moment, that rascal Bauquel is temporarily eclipsed. Here is your fee,
double what I promised."

Nello protested faintly. "But, Monsieur, this is too much. And
remember, please, I was very nearly a failure. Bauquel's _claque_ was
almost too much for me."

Degraux laughed light-heartedly. "Very nearly, but not quite. You say
your good old Papa Péron calls him a charlatan. The expression is
perhaps a little strong. He is not that, but he is perhaps not the
genius he thinks himself, or his friends think him."

"I should be more than delighted to possess his reputation, Monsieur,"
interrupted the young Italian.

Degraux laid his hand lightly on Nello's shoulder.

"I see, Corsini, you have a head upon your shoulders. Will you permit
me to give you a few words of sound advice?"

"A thousand if you are so disposed, Monsieur."

"You have scored a triumph of sorts to-night, but don't let it give
you a swollen head."

"It will not, Monsieur, I can assure you," was the answer.

"That is well; preserve the business head as well as the artistic
instinct. This profession is full of ups and downs. Look at Bauquel!
In spite of his considerable earnings, he is always in debt, always in
the hands of money-lenders. He earns easily, he spends more easily. In
five years he will be ousted from his position by younger and more
talented rivals, and he will be penniless. He will probably come to me
to borrow a sovereign."

"And you will let him have it, I am sure, Monsieur," said Nello
warmly. "You have a very kind heart."

"Of course I shall let him have it. But, at the same time, I shall
take advantage of the opportunity to say, 'here it is, friend Bauquel.
But why did you not save in the fat years, instead of spending your
money on a miserable _claque_, in order to spoil my show? And you
know, moreover, you were absolutely in the wrong.'"

Nello could not refrain from smiling. Paul Degraux was very human. He
could not forgive Bauquel for his cavalier treatment.

"I am a frugal Italian, Monsieur. I shall never waste my money."

Paul Degraux swelled out his broad chest. "You will get on, my young
friend. Look at me! Twenty or twenty-five years ago I was playing in a
small orchestra with Gay at a few shillings a week--I have no doubt
Gay has told you of that little episode. I know he is a very garrulous
person--a dear good chap, but garrulous. Well, Gay is there and I am
here. Why?"

He thundered out the question, expanding still further his broad
chest.

Nello temporised. The great director was evidently in a confidential
mood. It was as well to fall in with his humour.

"Ah, why, Monsieur? I should like to know. I am sure I should learn a
good deal."

Degraux, in his present mood, was pleased to have a listener. The
concert was going on splendidly with experienced stars. It no longer
required his attention.

"Listen, my young friend! I devoted myself to the business side of
art. I saw more money was to be made out of exploiting other people
than being exploited by others. Do you understand?"

"I think I do," said the young Italian, who was fairly shrewd for his
years. "In fact, I am sure I do."

"Good! Gay followed the artistic side." Degraux snapped his fingers
contemptuously. "The result: poor Gay, at his age, conducting a small
orchestra at the Parthenon--a good one, I admit; but what is the
remuneration? I, Paul Degraux," again he tapped his broad chest
significantly, "am here in a great position. I have followed the
business side of art; poor old Gay has followed the artistic side.
Bah!"

"You advise me, Monsieur, to cultivate the business side?" queried the
young man.

"Of course. I am giving you good advice; sound advice. You have made a
little stir here, certain things may follow from it. But still, you
have not the reputation of Bauquel, second-rater that he is. Bauquel
will be on his knees to me next week, and of course I shall take him
back. It may be, when you come to me again, I can only give you a
second place in the programme. The way will be hard from the artistic
point of view."

Nello listened with deep attention. Degraux was a man of business to
his finger-tips. Certainly he was giving him good advice.

"And what are they, these artists, except the very few who are in the
front rank--creatures of an hour, of the public's caprice? Joachim,
Sarasate, those are names to conjure with; they are permanent. But the
others come and go. I, one of the directors of the Italian Opera,
remain while they disappear. The exploiters are permanent, the
exploited are transitory."

"What do you advise, Monsieur?" asked Nello timidly. This whirlwind of
a man half fascinated, half repelled him.

Monsieur Degraux held out his hand with his frank, engaging smile.

"Be exploited as long as it suits your book. Then save money and
exploit other people. I cannot stay any longer. I have given you a
few hints. You must work them out for yourself."

A new world was opening to Nello Corsini, the talented young violinist
who, only a few weeks ago, had played in the street on the chance of
the coppers flung by passers-by. But it was absurd! How could he ever
be a Paul Degraux? And yet, Degraux had played twenty-five years ago
in a small orchestra for a pittance. What was his income now?
Something princely.

He longed to hasten back to Dean Street with that precious sheaf of
notes. How the dear old Papa's eyes would lighten up at the news of
his success, when he told him the tale of how Bauquel's _claque_ had
been silenced. And the dear little Anita too! Tears of joy would run
down her cheeks.

Degraux, or Bauquel, after such a night of triumph, would have taken a
cab. But such an idea was alien to Nello's frugal temperament. It was
only a few moments' walk. He took his violin case in his hand and
stepped along bravely.

As he emerged from the theatre a footman in handsome livery laid his
hand upon his arm.

"Pardon me, Signor Corsini. The Princess Zouroff wishes to speak to
you. Will you follow me, please? I will lead you to her carriage."

He followed the tall footman. The Princess, a grey-haired woman of
tall and commanding presence, leaned through the carriage window.

"Ah, Signor Corsini, I have been enchanted with your playing to-night.
I am giving a reception at the Russian Embassy, in Chesham Place,
to-morrow evening. I shall be so pleased if you will come and play
for us--at your own fee, of course."

Nello shot a swift glance into the carriage. On the back seat, facing
the horses, were the grey-haired woman and a beautiful young girl. On
the front seat was a dark, handsome man of about thirty-five.

He recognised them at once, the man and the young girl. They were the
two who had driven down the street to the Royalty Theatre on that dark
winter night when he had been playing in the streets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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, 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 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 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 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."

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.




CHAPTER VI


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 him for 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 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."

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 no doubt 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 eleven o'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.




CHAPTER VII


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 in tragedy. 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. "The _femme
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--a romance 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 the _morgue_ to 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 know
how 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 his last 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 persons in 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."




CHAPTER VIII


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
unpretentious little 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 the _cuisine_; 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 a _tête-à-tête_ meal. 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 can make a greater and
quicker success than here--you can afterwards come back with a foreign
_cachet_. 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."

The great man looked at his watch. "Fortunately, not a very busy day.
I am glad we have had plenty of time to talk. But I will give you more
time on Friday."

Nello perceived that he was dismissed. This man had many irons in the
fire; he could not stay too long in warming one. Still, there was
something he must say before he left; something very important.

"Pardon me, Baron, if I intrude upon a few more seconds of your
valuable time. You know nothing of my domestic circumstances. I have
neither wife nor sweetheart, but I have a young sister, to whom I am
very tenderly attached. I may take her with me on this journey?"

Over Salmoros's usually kind face there crept a slight frown. He had
not thought of this, and yet a young man was bound to have an
entanglement of some sort. Fortunate that it was not a wife, still
more fortunate that it was not a sweetheart. He knew the artistic
temperaments well. One smile of a woman would outweigh much gold.

Then the frown died away and the benevolent smile came back. He must
reason with this young man calmly.

"I take it you are very devoted to each other?"

Nello answered fervently. "We think with one brain, we feel with one
heart, sir. It will cut her to the quick for me to leave her behind."

The Baron spoke musingly. Years ago he had had his love affairs like
other men; but women had never entered into his scheme of things as
they had in the case of his old friend Jean. They were meant for man's
leisure, for his playtime; they could not be woven into the serious
business of life.

"That is all very well, Corsini, but hearts are not so easily broken
by a little absence. One day you will leave her for a wife, one day
she will leave you for a husband. I trust she will be sensible. You
cannot go on this expedition hampered by a woman, whatever her
relationship. You will come back to her soon."

"How soon do you think, sir?" questioned Nello eagerly.

"Say, in two or three months." The Baron's tone was a little
hesitating. He knew in his own mind that there was a darker side to
the picture, that there might be an altogether different ending to the
journey. But he was not going to frighten the young man with that, or
he might cry off at the last minute.

Nello persisted; his love for his self-sacrificing little sister was
very real, very deep.

"She is young, in many things younger than her years, and utterly
ignorant of the world. I cannot leave her alone, Baron, in the charge
of a careless landlady. I would rather give up the whole thing and
risk my chances here in London."

The Baron thought to himself that here was a more difficult person to
deal with than he expected. But it was not very long before his
fertile brain solved the difficulty.

"I understand. I am the last man in the world to suggest such an
inhuman thing. I can make the way easy for you. Two dear friends of
mine, old maids I suppose we must call them, have a big house in
Kensington. They are very lonely, without any young relatives. At a
word from me they would be delighted to take charge of her during your
brief absence. Keep what money you have saved for yourself. I will
charge myself with her maintenance, and she shall have plenty of
pocket-money, I can assure you."

Nello grasped the old man's hand warmly. "You have relieved me of the
last ounce of hesitation. A thousand, nay, ten thousand thanks."

The Baron returned the pressure; he was delighted he had got his own
way. "That is understood. On Friday I will have that cut-and-dried
also. Now keep up your little sister's spirits--what is her name? Eh,
Anita. Tell her that you are going to make fame and fortune, that you
will soon be back, and that she will be very happy with these two dear
old ladies, who will cosset her like a baby."

When he left the Baron he could not quite decide what his feelings
were. In a sense he was jubilant at the brilliant prospects before
him, but his heart was heavy for Anita. They had lived together all
their lives; they had been through terrible and heart-breaking times.

To-night he was playing at Leicester House, the abode of a musical
duchess. He wanted to play his best; he would not dare to tell the
unsuspecting Anita of his speedy departure. Her tears, her grief,
would unman him.

The first persons he met in the specious saloons overlooking the Green
Park were the Princess Zouroff and her daughter.

The girl held out her hand. "Ah, Signor, I am so pleased to see you.
You must play that lovely little romance to-night. Shall I tell you
the reason?"

"I require no reason, Princess. It is enough for me that you request
me to play it. It shall be played." He blushed a little as he spoke.
He was not accustomed to indulge in _persiflage_ with great ladies.

A little colour came into her face also. Perhaps the young musician's
tone had been more fervent than he intended.

"But I will tell you the reason, nevertheless. We have been recalled
to St. Petersburg; we leave London next week. That is the reason my
brother Boris is not here; he is winding up affairs for his
successor."

A deeper flush spread over Nello's face. "But that is very strange. I
am going there myself. I start next Monday."

The young Princess looked pleased. She turned to her mother. "Signor
Corsini must call upon us, mother." She looked at him with a little
smile. "To-night will not then be the last time I shall hear that
lovely romance."

The elder woman seconded the invitation warmly. "You shall come and
play for us, Signor. I think you will find the Slav temperament a
little more fervent than the Anglo-Saxon one."

Nello thought this a good time for explanations. Degraux would spread
the news about in his world, the Zouroffs would spread it about in
theirs.

"You know, of course, the Baron Salmoros?"

The Princess replied that they had a slight acquaintance with that
distinguished financier.

"Lady Glendover introduced me to him. He is a very considerable
_amateur_, he has been kind enough to take a very warm interest in
me. He is going to push my fortunes in Russia."

"His name is one to conjure with in Russia," said the grey-haired
Princess. "He stands very high in the favour of his Imperial Majesty."

Princess Nada nodded him farewell. "It is not good-bye, then, only
_au revoir_. I suppose artists and ambassadors are the greatest
cosmopolitans on earth. We shall meet next in St. Petersburg."

And, on the Monday of the following week, Corsini set out on his
expedition.

He had seen Degraux, who had congratulated him heartily. "Salmoros
pulls so many strings; he can do more for you in a week than I could
do for you in twelve months," he had told him. "He has run several
theatres for people he believed in. He will do anything in the world
for you when he once takes a fancy."

And little Anita had been very brave; she wept a good deal when she
was alone, but in her brother's presence she kept her tears back. Was
she to oppose the feelings of her loving and undisciplined heart to
the fiat of this new benefactor who had come so unexpectedly into
their lives?

So she went meekly to the big house in Kensington, tenanted by the two
dear old maids who were prepared to mother her, as much for her own
sweet ways as from their ardent admiration for the compelling
Salmoros, who had been a bosom friend of their father.

"Two or three months and I shall be back again!" sighed Corsini as he
settled himself in the train. Little could he guess what the future
would unfold as he made this confident prediction.




CHAPTER IX


Weary and worn with his long journey, Nello dismounted at the little
wayside station about thirty miles from St. Petersburg. All passengers
were peremptorily ordered to alight. Presently he learned that there
had been a slight railway accident in front, and that he might have to
wait two or three hours before he could get on to the capital.

He walked in the direction of the little village. There was evidently
a great stir taking place in this ordinarily quiet neighbourhood.
Mounted soldiers were drawn up before the old posting-inn.

Nello happened to get hold of a man who could speak a little French,
in a halting, but intelligent way.

"Quite a commotion for such a tranquil spot. What is it that is on the
_tapis_?" inquired Corsini.

The man explained in his slow French. "Something out of the usual,
Monsieur. Have you ever heard of a terrible fellow, one Ivan,
nicknamed 'The Cuckoo'?"

No, Nello had never heard of him. "Is he a very formidable personage
this 'Ivan the Cuckoo,' then?"

The man explained elaborately that Ivan was a much-feared outlaw, that
he was in the vicinity with a gang of desperadoes and assassins. He
was a convict who had escaped from the mines of Siberia, and had
gathered round him a band of miscreants as desperate as himself, and
as careless of consequences. They had lived by preying on the peasants
and stray travellers.

"The police are endeavouring to block the roads, so that, in
desperation, he and his associates may be driven into the village and
captured," concluded the man who had volunteered the explanation in
his halting French.

Corsini thanked him, and strolled along down the straggling village
street. What was he to do till the railway service was restored? The
village inn was open, where, if he pleased, he could go and saturate
himself with vodka or some other potent spirit; but the young man had
the abstemiousness of the Latin races. He did not want to amuse
himself in this fashion.

He would take a little stroll. Occupied with his own thoughts of the
life and reception awaiting him in St. Petersburg, with those powerful
introductions from the influential Salmoros, he did not think of the
risk he was running in wandering away from the protected precincts of
the quiet village, guarded as it was by those stout mounted soldiers.
Ivan and his band were lurking about somewhere, ready to pounce on the
unwary traveller.

After a few minutes' slow walk, he came to a roadside ikon.
Mechanically he stopped and crossed himself. He was a man of deeply
religious feeling, and he fancied he had been blessed with a good omen
on his entrance into this strange country. A few prayers to the
Blessed Virgin and he would be sheltered from all harm.

Hardly had his lips ceased moving in reverent supplication, when he
was aware of a strange presence. A tall, bearded man emerged from the
semi-gloom and held out his hands with an imploring gesture.

"Save me for the sake of her whom we both reverence," he cried. He
spoke, like the last man who had addressed Nello, in lame and halting
French. He had evidently appreciated the fact that Corsini was not a
fellow-countryman.

Corsini started back and his hand stole to his hip pocket, from which
he produced a very serviceable revolver, which he levelled straight at
the intruder.

"Who and what are you?" he cried loudly, with a resolution he was far
from feeling. This rough, unkempt man looked as if he was possessed of
giant strength. If it had come to a hand-to-hand tussle, he could have
broken the slim young Italian in two. But Nello would not let it come
to that. He kept his pistol well levelled at the stranger's head. The
least movement and he would fire.

"Save me for her sake, for the sake of the Virgin," pleaded the man in
despairing accents. "You are not an outlaw like me; you have not been
through what I have. I trust you, for a man who says his prayers with
the devotion you do--I watched you behind the trees--would never
betray his hunted fellow-creatures."

And then a light came suddenly to Corsini, standing there, armed with
that eloquent pistol.

"You speak of yourself as an outlaw. I have just come from the little
village yonder, which is in a state of commotion with mounted
soldiers. They are looking for an outlaw, a convict escaped from the
mines of Siberia. I am right in saying that you are 'Ivan the Cuckoo.'
Where is your band of assassins and robbers who prey upon the
travellers and peasants?"

The miserable man fell at his feet. Nello, in the dim light, saw that
his face had gone livid.

"You have guessed, Monsieur. It is true. I am Ivan the outlaw. You
cannot appreciate the misery that drove me to this."

In a dim sort of way Nello understood. This man was an outlaw. Was it
not just a chance that he was not one himself? Many a night, as he had
played in the cold streets for a few miserable pence, he had passed
the flaring restaurants, the well-lighted shops, their windows full of
precious things to be coveted by the poor and hungry. He could not
deny that many a time he had railed at the world's injustice, that
criminal thoughts had surged through his half-maddened brain.

He thought of the saying of the old Quaker, whenever he heard of a
criminal on the road to death. "There, but for the grace of God, goes
myself."

Yes, but for the sudden intervention in the shape of good old Papa
Péron, he might have drifted into evil courses like the wretched
creature grovelling at his feet. It was not for him to judge.

He looked at him steadily, still keeping the pistol levelled at the
vital part, and repeated his question.

"What has become of your band of robbers and assassins?" he asked
sternly.

"Dispersed, Monsieur--dispersed, I give you my word. Yesterday we
learned that the soldiers and police were on our track, were preparing
to draw a cordon round us. It was a case of _sauve qui peut_, devil
take the hindmost. We agreed to separate. There were not more than
half a dozen of us, but our numbers have been exaggerated. We all
scattered in different directions. Somehow, I stumbled up here, and
you tell me the little village is astir."

"What is it you want of me?"

"Just a little money, Monsieur; just a little money to help me on my
way to St. Petersburg, where I shall find friends."

Nello looked at him suspiciously. "But why do you want money? It was
only yesterday that you heard the police were closing round you. You
have been robbing as you go. When you agreed to separate, no doubt you
divided the ready money."

"That is true, Monsieur; you are very clever," replied the grovelling
man in a fawning voice. "You will hardly believe me when I tell you,
but I swear it is true. Last night I slept in a little inn a few miles
from here. I had drunk heavily, I admit; I slept very soundly. When I
awoke in the morning every coin I possessed had been stolen from my
pockets. I, an old hand, blush to tell you, Monsieur; but I, who have
robbed so many, was robbed myself."

"Do you suspect anybody?" was Nello's next question.

The man uttered a fierce imprecation. "Yes, I do; I suspect one of my
so-called pals. As captain I took the biggest share when we agreed to
separate. I caught his eye fixed upon me with a very sinister look. My
theory is that he followed me at a safe distance and saw where I was
lodged. He was well aware of my habits; he knew I should be pretty
fast asleep. He climbed up through the window, Monsieur, and took
every copper. I was too drunk to hear him. If I had been in my sober
senses, I would have strangled him, and added one more crime to the
many committed by Ivan the outlaw." He ended with a defiant grin, that
showed a row of strong white wolfish teeth.

Nello mused for a little space. The man might be speaking truth; he
was half disposed to think so. On the other hand, he might be telling
him a tissue of lies.

"Why are you not armed?" he asked suddenly.

"I have a pistol, Monsieur, but it is empty. I could find no place in
which to buy cartridges. See for yourself."

He fumbled in his pocket and threw down the weapon on the ground.
Nello picked it up cautiously; it was, as its owner had truly
declared, harmless.

A grim smile crossed the young man's countenance, but he did not for a
second relax his vigilance. This ruffian of the highway was, no doubt,
as cunning as he was plausible.

"If your pistol had been loaded, I expect you would have extorted
money from me instead of begging it."

Ivan the outlaw shook his big head. "Under ordinary circumstances,
yes, Monsieur. Adversity has taught me not to stand upon ceremony. But
when I saw your lips moving in prayer before the ikon, I would not
have harmed a hair of your head. You would have been sacred."

Truly a strange being, imbued with the ever-present superstition of
the Russian peasant, thought Nello to himself.

"And you want money from me. Of course you know what my duty is, as a
peaceable man who has no sympathy with robbers and assassins?"

"Certainly, Monsieur. If you don't choose to shoot me in a vital
spot and so insure my death, you ought to maim me to prevent me from
moving, leave me here and go and fetch the police from the village
to take me into custody." The man had spoken so far in a low,
imperturbable voice; then at the end he lashed himself into sudden
fury and shrieked out.

"It's a toss of a copper to me what you do. But if you won't give me
any money, kill me outright. I have not made such a success of life
that I am anxious to enjoy much more of it. Kill me, Monsieur, and
finish it once for all. The police will thank you for having got rid
of 'Ivan the Cuckoo.' They won't ask too many questions."

Nello thought for some little time. His thoughts went back to a very
miserable night, some six months ago. He had been playing in the
streets and had returned home with nothing. He owed the rent for the
miserable hovel in which they sheltered; they had no food.

He had looked his sister squarely in the face and had whispered the
question--"Is life worth living, Anita, under such conditions?" She
had returned his gaze with a face as white as his own, but she had not
faltered, as she replied, "Nello, I leave it in your hands." And,
thank Heaven, he had conquered that terrible fit of despair, to find,
later on, a new world opening to him.

He handed the wretched man a sum of money and spoke in very gentle
tones.

"God be good to you, my poor friend, and soften your heart. I know not
if the world has been too harsh to you, or you have too grievously
offended the world. Go in peace. I am not your judge, and I will not
be your executioner."

With a brief blessing, the outlaw took the money and slunk away in the
gathering darkness.

"I shall remember your face for ever," he whispered in farewell. "It
is not likely we shall ever meet again. But if we do and I can repay
my debt, I will, and with interest."

A few hours later Nello was in St. Petersburg. He put up at one of the
best hotels in the city, acting upon the instructions of Salmoros.
That gentleman had urged upon him the necessity of keeping up a good
appearance, and spending money lavishly, at any rate for the present.

That night he had confused dreams of his gentle little sister Anita,
the beautiful Princess Nada, and the rough outlaw whom he had saved
from justice.

Next morning he made his way to the British Embassy and inquired for
Lord Ickfold, mentioning that he had come on a special mission from
the Baron Salmoros. In a few moments he was shown into His
Excellency's presence.

Lord Ickfold was a handsome, presentable man of about sixty years of
age. Contrary to the fashion of the day, he was clean-shaven. Being a
widower, an unmarried daughter presided over the establishment. This
morning he was at a somewhat late _déjeuner_, alone.

He rose and shook the young man cordially by the hand. "Anybody who
comes from my good old friend Salmoros is especially welcome," he said
with true diplomatic urbanity. "By the way, have you breakfasted? I am
very late; I had to send important despatches last night. I did not
get to bed till four this morning."

Nello answered with equal courtesy that he had already made his meal,
and handed him the bulgy packet with which the Baron had entrusted
him.

The Ambassador perused the contents of the packet slowly as he
consumed his breakfast. But the last letter he read seemed to agitate
him to an unwonted degree. He jumped up hastily, rang the bell, and
commanded the footman to order his carriage immediately. For a moment
he almost seemed oblivious of the young man's presence.

"Pardon me, Signor Corsini. I must drive to the Winter Palace at once;
the news in the last letter is of extreme urgency. We will go down
together when the carriage comes. Can I drop you anywhere?"

But Nello preferred to walk and take his bearings of the wonderful
city. Lord Ickfold shook him warmly by the hand at parting.

"I have your address. It will not be long before I shall want to see
you again. If you are writing to the Baron to-day, please give him my
warmest regards and a thousand thanks. It may be a little time, for
certain reasons, before I communicate with him directly. In fact, I
would rather send a letter to you to be forwarded."

Nello walked the gay streets for some time. Being a very shrewd young
man, in spite of his comparative youth, it seemed to him that Lord
Ickfold and the Baron were playing some subtle game, in which he was
to be used as a pawn.

But what did that matter, so long as his career was advanced between
the pair?

And then his thoughts reverted to the charming young Princess Nada.
When would he meet her again? She would be in St. Petersburg this
week, so she had told him.




CHAPTER X


In the private room of Count Golitzine, the Czar's private secretary,
sat two men--the Count himself and Lord Ickfold, the British
Ambassador. The apartment was in a secluded wing of the Winter Palace.

The Ambassador was reading aloud from the Baron's covering letter,
which he held in his hands.

"Remember, the young man, Corsini, whom I am sending you is everything
for your purpose. Only you must keep him in entire ignorance of the
part he is to play--at any rate for the present--as he is still very
young and might be open to the influence of women. This is a most
vital point. He is very intelligent without being suspicious;
honourable, trustworthy, and innocent, without being a fool. I think I
have taken his measure pretty accurately. He is devoted to his art--he
is really a most accomplished musician, as the notices I enclose will
prove--and you must get him pushed forward to the premier place,
through the good offices of your friends. The Zouroffs are returning
for a short space to the Court and he will have the _entrée_ to their
house. I fancy, from what I have heard, that the Princess Nada is just
a little attracted by him. The important thing, however, is to get him
an introduction to La Belle Quéro. She is hand in glove with Prince
Zouroff, and from that fact alone to be suspected. They have been in
correspondence with each other all the short time he has been in
England; but although I have tried my best, I have never been able to
get hold of any of their letters."

Lord Ickfold paused a moment and looked at the Count, who nodded his
head.

"Yes, I agree. Corsini may be very useful, especially if he manages to
captivate La Belle Quéro. That is, no doubt, what Salmoros has in his
mind, amongst several other things."

The Ambassador resumed his reading. "I regret that I have but a slight
clue to what I conceive to be a very bold and desperate conspiracy, in
which Zouroff is one of the leading figures. The man has a certain
amount of brains and a considerable amount of daring, which makes him
the more to be feared. But the information which I send your
Excellency in other letters is absolutely reliable. For the present,
until we can learn more, use all your influence through Golitzine and
others to make sure that the Emperor does not appear in public more
often than is absolutely necessary. Otherwise, I fear disaster."

The two men discussed the situation for some time. There were other
documents besides the covering letter which they read very carefully.

Golitzine summed up, as it were. "Our hopes lie in the direction of La
Belle Quéro through this young Italian, who, you tell me, is handsome
and also a talented artist."

"You have read in one of those other letters what Salmoros has said
of him--that he has created a considerable success in London, and only
just wants a little influence to push him into the front rank."

The Count smiled. "That is easy, my dear friend. The Director of the
Imperial Opera is getting a trifle old. We will pension him, and put
Corsini in his place."

"A bold stroke," said Lord Ickfold admiringly. "There is something to
be said for an autocratic government after all. We dare not do
anything of the kind in our country; all the Press would be up in
arms. With you, a stroke of the pen settles everything."

The Count's smile deepened. "And after all, my lord, in the long
run, it works as well as in your democratic country. In the end,
substantial justice is done, rather more swiftly, by our methods."

"It seems to me that La Belle Quéro is the crux," commented the
Ambassador. "Suppose she refuses to fall in love with this Corsini,
what then?"

"She will not refuse," replied the Count, speaking with his assured
man-of-the-world air. "The relations between her and the Prince have
been of long standing, I admit, and she is also a woman who might be
attracted by a certain amount of brutality which our excellent friend
Boris has in perfect abundance. But this young man is a Latin like
herself, an artist like herself. Bah! In twenty-four hours Zouroff
will be forgotten. Besides, he is verging on middle age, and this
Corsini is a youth. Besides, further, he will be the Director of the
Imperial Opera. She will be dependent upon him for small kindnesses,
little favours, which I shall instruct him to be lavish of. You
understand?"

The morning after the interview between these two exalted personages,
the Ambassador's smart carriage stopped at Nello's hotel. The slim
secretary alighted and sought the young musician, with a message from
his chief that he desired to see him immediately at the Embassy.

"You see I have not forgotten you, Signor Corsini," was Lord Ickfold's
cordial greeting as Nello entered the room. "Salmoros has asked me to
use all my influence to advance you in your profession, and I intend
to do so. It will give me the greatest pleasure."

He wrote a brief note and handed it to the young man. "This is a
letter to Count Golitzine, the Emperor's secretary, who wields more
influence than anybody in St. Petersburg. You will find him at the
Winter Palace. My carriage is waiting to drive you there."

Events were happening very rapidly, Nello thought. When Salmoros took
a thing up, the wheels of action appeared to move very easily. Also,
he was beginning to get a firm foothold in the great world of
diplomacy and politics. Yesterday he had made the acquaintance of the
British Ambassador; this morning he was to interview the Emperor's
private secretary, the most powerful man in St. Petersburg, and
consequently in Russia.

The Count received him with more than ordinary graciousness, and
questioned him kindly about his London experiences. Lounging by the
mantelpiece of the room in which the two men were seated, was a tall,
quietly-dressed middle-aged man in civilian clothes. Nello took him to
be either an official of the Court or a private friend of the
secretary.

At a pause in the conversation, this person, whoever he was, suddenly
turned to the young man and carelessly asked in French, "Do you know
any one of position in St. Petersburg, Signor Corsini?"

Nello frankly answered that with the exception of Lord Ickfold and the
Count, he knew nobody except the Princess Zouroff and her daughter. He
explained how he had met them, how he had played at their house in
London, and been invited to visit them here.

Nello fancied that a slight frown come over the unknown's face at
mention of the name Zouroff. But his comment was quite simple. "Ah,
the Ambassador and the Count between them will soon extend your circle
of acquaintance. I understand you come with strong letters of
introduction from that splendid old fellow, Salmoros."

Nello bowed. Evidently this personage, to whom he had not been
introduced, knew what was going on. He must certainly be an official
of some importance, and appeared to be quite at his ease in
Golitzine's presence.

The Count resumed his conversation with Nello, and the other man
quitted his lounging position by the fire-place, and walked down the
long room to the deep bay window, from which he pretended to look out.
But all the while he was listening intently to the other two.

"And now, Signor Corsini, I have a little surprise for you, and one
which I hope will be welcome," were the Count's parting words. "The
present Director of the Imperial Opera has for some time contemplated
retirement. He is growing a little deaf, and finds that the infirmity
militates against the proper performance of his duties. He will
relinquish his post next week, and I have much pleasure in conferring
the appointment upon you. I do so with the sanction of my Imperial
Master, to whom I have shown the Baron's strong letters of
recommendation."

Nello felt the room going round. Could he believe his ears? Only a few
hours in St. Petersburg, and promoted to one of the most coveted posts
in the musical world! Why, he was as great as Degraux. Truly, the
white-haired Salmoros was a wizard, masquerading under the guise of a
benevolent financier.

With a great effort he pulled himself together and stammered his
thanks. "I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude, your Excellency.
I shall do my best to justify your kindness. But I feel it will be no
easy task to follow in the footsteps of such an illustrious
predecessor."

As soon as Nello had retired, the man who was lounging in the bay
window turned round to Golitzine and shot at him the abrupt question,
"Well, what do you think of him, eh? Is that shrewd old fellow
Salmoros right? Will he be useful to us?"

The Count replied in respectful tones. "It is rather early to form a
judgment, your Majesty; but I must own I am very favourably impressed
with the young man. I think he would be as true as steel to those who
had befriended him."

Nello had little suspected that the tall middle-aged person, dressed
in civilian attire, whom he had taken for an official of the Court or
a personal friend of the Count's, was the Emperor Alexander himself,
the autocrat of all the Russias, supposed to be the strongest man in
Europe, who could bend a horse-shoe between his fingers.

"The one thing to do now is to bring this young Italian and La Belle
Quéro together." The Emperor spoke in a musing tone. "That is what the
Baron intends. And we know besides that she is suspected by our secret
police. Half the men who go to her little parties are in their black
books; about Zouroff, we have already pretty convincing evidence. My
own belief is that she is one of the prime movers in the affair."

"So far, of course, nothing has been brought home to her. She
entertains these men, I know, but she is a foreigner, a Spaniard, and
cannot be well acquainted with our domestic politics," interjected the
Count, who was rather favourably impressed with the beautiful
contralto. "Still, in this direction, Corsini may be very useful. He
may be able to worm something out of her."

"Well, Golitzine, we will bring matters to a head as soon as possible,
so far as these two people are concerned," commanded his Majesty. "Let
your wife give a concert before the week is out and engage La Belle
Quéro and this young Corsini for it."

The Count bowed. "I will execute your orders, Sire. I agree it would
be politic to introduce them under social auspices, rather than
strictly business ones. Next week he will be installed at the Opera,
and must at once come into touch with her in pursuance of his
professional duties."

"Precisely. That is just what I wish to anticipate. You have, as
always, most accurately taken my meaning."

A gleam of anxiety came into Golitzine's eyes as he ventured to give a
word of warning.

"I trust that your Majesty does not propose to do me the honor of
attending this function?"

"Why not? I had rather thought of coming, in order to learn from you
how the first act of the comedy was going. What are your objections?"

"You will remember, Sire, the solemn warning Salmoros has given me:
that you should show yourself in public as little as possible. I would
beseech your Majesty to pay heed to that warning. I cannot bar the
suspects from my house. Zouroff, for example, who arrives to-morrow,
must receive an invitation."

The Emperor indulged in an angry gesture. "It has come to something
when I have to slink away and hide myself from a traitor like that!
But you are right, Count; Salmoros is right. We must bide our time
until we can catch them red-handed. Then, Heaven help them! No, I will
not attend your wife's concert, from motives of prudence. But you will
let me know early next morning if the scheme is progressing?"

Count Golitzine accompanied his Royal Master to the door; then he
returned to his seat to meditate profoundly over what was happening.




CHAPTER XI


It wanted two days to Nello Corsini's assumption of his post as
director of the Imperial Opera, and to-night was the night of Countess
Golitzine's concert.

Nello was to play to-night in his private capacity of violinist, his
fame having already spread abroad through the good offices of the
Count. As soon as he took up his office as director he would not be
able to take on many private engagements. To use the language of
Degraux, he would be one of the exploiters rather than one of the
exploited.

The saloons of the Countess were very crowded. A rumour had gone
around that the Emperor himself would grace the function with his
august presence. This rumour, as the previous chapter has revealed,
was a false one; but its circulation had provided the hostess with
many guests who otherwise would not have put in an appearance.

Nello Corsini, at present unrecognised by the fashionable crowd which
had only heard of him by name, made his way amongst the beautifully
attired men and women. There was no familiar face amongst this vast
throng. For a moment he felt just a little home-sick; he thought of
his little sister Anita. Oh, why could he not have brought her?

And then, suddenly, his glance brightened. Standing a foot in front
of him were the grey-haired Princess Zouroff and her radiant, charming
daughter.

Nada stretched out a welcoming hand. "We must have raced each other
across Europe. I see you have your violin-case with you. You are going
to play."

"Yes, and I shall certainly play your favourite. I arrived just a day
or two in front of you, and of course, you have not heard of my good
fortune. Through the offices of Count Golitzine, I have been appointed
to the post of Director of the Imperial Opera."

The young girl opened her eyes wide; and turned to her mother. "What
do you think of that, dearest? Signor Corsini is appointed to the
directorship of the Imperial Opera."

The elder woman smiled, and replied in her calm, quiet accents,
directing her gaze at the young Italian.

"I told you, Signor, that the name of Salmoros was one to conjure with
in Russia."

Nello was about to reply, when the young Princess put her finger to
her lips. A sudden hush had spread over the assembly. A beautiful
young Spanish woman had just ascended the small platform--a young
woman known by the affectionate nickname of La Belle Quéro.

She sang the well-known song from _Lucrezia Borgia_, "Il Segreto per
esse felice," in her deep, resonant, contralto tones. She sang it with
a vigour and abandon which placed beyond question the fact that she
was a superb artist, as well as a beautiful woman.

When she had finished, there was tremendous applause. An encore was
insisted on and granted by the obliging _prima donna_. The Count
Golitzine himself led the great singer from the platform to a seat.
His keen eye had already observed Corsini in attendance on the
Zouroffs. He beckoned to the young man, who made a hasty apology to
the Princess and her daughter.

"I have the pleasure of presenting one great artist to another," said
the Count in his suavest tones. "Signor Corsini, who will presently
enchant us on the violin, to Madame Quéro, who has already captivated
us with her liquid notes. You have no doubt already heard, Madame,
that next week Signor Corsini takes over the post of Director of the
Imperial Opera."

Madame Quéro--she had a husband knocking about somewhere in Spain, who
never came into her calculations or scheme of existence--flashed at
the handsome young Italian a very charming and provocative smile.

"We shall have to work together very soon, shall we not, Signor? I am
afraid you will find me a somewhat difficult person. It is just as
well we should meet first on neutral ground. Perhaps when we do
quarrel, we may be disposed to forgive each other the more readily for
that fact."

Nello was becoming quite a man of the world in this rarefied
atmosphere into which he had been so suddenly projected. He replied to
the raillery of the beautiful singer in becoming language. She swept
an approving glance over him.

"I think we shall soon be very good friends," she said in a gracious
voice. "Our present Director is a bit of a bully, and I believe hates
women." She shrugged her shapely shoulders. "Well, he is ancient and
cantankerous. You are young; I am sure you do not hate women, just
because they are the inferior sex."

The smile that accompanied the words became more seductive. Corsini
was a little put to it to preserve his equilibrium. He had been
welcomed cordially by a Princess and her charming daughter. Here was a
celebrated _prima donna_ of great beauty, openly declaring that she
was ready to flirt with him--ready to be made love to, if he were
disposed that way.

He paid her some gallant compliments, of the kind that come readily to
the lips of members of the Latin races; but, as he did so, his glance
stole unconsciously to the lovely young Princess, and involuntarily
there came into his eyes a light that was noted by the observant
Spanish woman.

"You admire the Princess Nada Zouroff immensely. Is it not so? You
have a good excuse; she is certainly very beautiful. An exquisite bud
rather than a full-grown rose, eh, my friend?"

"Perhaps, Madame," replied the diplomatic Italian. "But all flowers
are beautiful, whether in bud or full blossom."

"For myself, were I a man, I should not be very greatly attracted by
immaturity. We are using flowers in the form of an allegory. Of course
we are really speaking of women." She threw at him one of her most
dazzling smiles. There was nothing immature, nothing of the ripening
bud about the opulent beauty of La Belle Quéro.

Corsini, seeing what was expected of him, returned that alluring smile
with a glance of respectful admiration. He had already gathered that
she was a popular idol, and wielded great influence in the musical
world.

Personally, he preferred the simpler and more modest loveliness of the
charming young Princess. But it was politic to win the good opinion of
such an influential personage, and she was evidently not the sort of
woman to tolerate rivalry.

For the next five minutes he made himself as agreeable as possible,
and the handsome singer was obviously impressed. Their conversation
was interrupted by the arrival of the conductor of the concert, who
intimated to Corsini that his would be the next turn.

Madame Quéro rose. "I must not keep you. Well, I hope we shall be very
great friends. I shall stay to hear your solo and then I shall leave.
I feel just a little fatigued to-night; not quite in the mood for this
sort of scene, gay and brilliant as it is."

With a gracious inclination of her handsome head, she walked with her
graceful, swimming gait to the entrance of the big saloon. Arrived at
the doors she waited till Corsini was on the platform and listened
attentively to his performance. There was great applause when he had
finished, and she clapped her hands enthusiastically. The artist in
her responded to the artist in him. It would not be true to say that
she had not heard greater masters, but there was a subtle quality in
his playing that revealed true genius. He always excelled in the
appealing and sentimental passages.

But while she was listening, to all appearances with the closest
attention, her glance was ever roaming through the open doors, down
the grand staircase. It was evident that she was looking for somebody,
and restless and disappointed because of his non-arrival.

And then, just as she was preparing to leave, a sudden light came into
her beautiful eyes. The tall soldierly figure of Zouroff was ascending
the stairs.

Her smile was just a little cold, her tones reproachful.

"I was just going; you promised to be here in time to hear me sing.
Why are you so late?"

The Prince drew her a little out of earshot. He spoke with his usual
ease and assurance. He admired the beautiful singer more than any
woman of his acquaintance, but he never spoiled any member of the
gentler sex with too great a display of politeness or solicitude.

"Is it so very difficult to guess? There are certain things that must
always come first in a man's life."

"Spare me that ancient platitude. You have indulged in it so often."
Her voice was restrained and low, but there was a dangerous gleam in
her eyes. Zouroff appealed in many ways to her passionate but rather
hard nature, but there were times when his indifference, his brutal
frankness, cut her to the quick.

But the Prince was not a man to pay more than passing heed to the
symptoms of a woman's gathering displeasure. By nature he was a
savage. To a certain extent he was susceptible to female beauty and
fascination, but deep down in his heart he had a profound contempt for
women, for their uncontrolled feelings, their little tricks of
sentiment, their abject subservience to their emotions.

"Things go well," he said, in his hard, level tones. "I trust we shall
not have to wait very long now. We held a very important meeting
to-night; it was prolonged beyond the hour I expected. That is why I
am late and could not get here in time to hear you sing."

The beautiful singer seemed but half appeased by this rather curt
apology. It confirmed what he had told her so often before, that
overwhelming ambition, the advancement of his political schemes, were
all powerful influences in his life; that a woman's devoted affection
weighed but as a feather in the scale against these.

"Let us talk of other things," she said, speaking in a tone of assumed
lightness.

"But I thought you took a great interest in these matters. At any rate
you have pretended to." His voice was hard and rasping, and there was
a sneer in it, an angry gleam in his eyes. He could not bear to be
crossed.

"At the proper time and place. But I don't choose to talk of just one
subject every moment we spend together. I am pleased, my friend, that
the prospects are so good. And now, for a few seconds, shall we talk
of those other things which are not quite so unimportant to the world
in general as they appear to you."

"And those other things?" inquired Zouroff in his surliest and most
repellant manner.

"Well, for example, we have just been listening to our new Director of
the Opera, Signor Corsini. He has played some very beautiful things;
he is a fine artist. Have you met him yet?"

Zouroff frowned heavily. "Yes, I have. The fellow played once at the
Embassy in London, and my mother and sister raved about him. You know
I am no judge of instrumental music--rather dislike it than otherwise.
And this young man seemed to me particularly objectionable."

"I wonder why?" inquired the _prima donna_ with a most innocent
expression. "Just because your mother and sister admired his genius?
What a very insufficient reason."

Zouroff vouchsafed no reply to this delicate raillery, and Madame
Quéro continued in the same detached, indifferent tones. "The Count
introduced him to me; we had a long chat together. I think he is a
most charming young man, quite unaffected, with delightful manners and
very handsome. I predict he will be excessively popular."

"I wonder if you realise how much you are annoying me when you talk in
this manner?" asked the Prince roughly.

La Belle Quéro held out her hand. "My friend, it seems to me you are
in rather a savage mood to-night, and I am not in the best of tempers
myself. If we talk much longer we may have a serious quarrel. I will
say good-night."

"Good-night," said the Prince in a low and harsh voice. "Perhaps it is
as well we should separate. There are a lot of people here I must
speak to."

Madame Quéro turned towards the staircase. He strode after her and
laid his big, strong hand none too gently on her arm.

"And please listen once and for all to me. If it pleases you to amuse
yourself with this young Corsini, or for the matter of that with any
other effeminate foreigner, you need fear no interference from me.
Understand that."

Tears of rage came into the beautiful eyes. "Take your hand away, you
savage, you are hurting me. As for what you have just said in your
usual brutal manner, I perfectly grasp your meaning. And please also
to understand this from me. If I choose to turn my fancy in that or
any other direction, I shall not trouble to consult you, much less beg
for your permission."

With a muttered curse Zouroff released her arm, whose delicate flesh
he had bruised, turned on his heel and re-entered the concert saloon.

And next morning, Golitzine, whose sharp eyes had noted the pleasant
talk between Corsini and the beautiful singer, also the way in which
Zouroff had flung away from her as she descended the grand staircase,
was able to report to his Imperial Master that the first act in the
little comedy had opened well.




CHAPTER XII


The relations between the handsome singer and the new Director, so
pleasantly established on the night of the Countess Golitzine's
concert, progressed very smoothly. La Belle Quéro was unwontedly
gentle and submissive in her acceptance of any professional
suggestions from the handsome young Italian.

It was the general gossip that she was a good deal in love with
Corsini, and wavering in her allegiance to the masterful and
tyrannical Prince. Nello himself took the situation very calmly. In
the first place, Madame Quéro was a married woman; to fall in love
with her, were he so disposed, would be hopeless, unless he resolved
to risk a scandal that might adversely affect their respective
careers.

And more important still, although he felt for her a quite warm
friendship, he was not the least in love. Her full and opulent beauty
possessed little attraction for him.

Although at present he did not fully realise the fact, the serene
loveliness of the young Princess Nada, combined with her girlish
_esprit_, her air of rank and position, had cast a spell over him that
he could not shake off. She would always be the lady of his dreams,
although by the exigencies of their different stations, he would be
compelled to worship her in secret and from afar.

She was surrounded with the halo of birth and great position. Madame
Quéro, although a woman of genius and considerable brain power, had
sprung from the peasant class. Her husband, whom she had married when
little more than a child, had been a poor fisherman. She made him a
handsome allowance, on the condition that he never intruded his rights
nor exposed her to the annoyance of his presence.

Her glorious voice had lifted her from grinding poverty and obscurity,
her quick mentality had enabled her to acquire much, to adapt herself,
with more than fair success, to her new environment. But certain
traces of her humble origin showed themselves very plainly at times,
especially in moments of excitement--vulgarity of gesture, some common
terms of speech, picked up from the gutter where she had played with
other bare-footed children like herself.

To a man of Corsini's naturally refined and elevated temperament,
these unconscious revelations came as a disturbing shock. And the more
intimate he became with her, the more frequently she revealed herself,
having no longer occasion to wear a protecting mask.

In a palace or a fashionable drawing-room, with that careful mask on,
La Belle Quéro was one personage, most careful as to speech and
manner. In her dressing-room, or in familiar intercourse with a fellow
artist, not of the great world, only belonging to the aristocracy of
talent, she was quite another being, with the solecisms, the
occasional coarse flashes of humor, of the Biscayan peasant.

No; although La Belle Quéro was so much nearer to him from the social
point of view, for his origin had not been so much more distinguished
than her own, he could not feel fascinated, in spite of her obvious
liking for him.

Golitzine, who had spies everywhere, in the dressing-rooms of
actresses, in the boudoirs of great ladies, knew all there was to know
about the friendship of the conductor and the _prima donna_. Was
Corsini taking advantage of his opportunities to acquire the woman's
confidence, so that it might serve his employer's interest?

But Corsini was only being used as a pawn in the game. He did not even
know that he was being used even in this humble capacity. He must have
guessed that there were some subtle motives behind this sudden and
unexpected preferment; but how could he possibly guess what these
motives were?

If the young Italian was going to be made really useful, he would have
to be enlightened. Salmoros, in his letter, had made a point of his
being kept in the dark, fearful probably of some scruples on his part
on being told that he was to play the _rôle_ of a spy.

He, Golitzine, was loath to go against the advice of Salmoros, but
astute and shrewd as the financier was, he could not have thought out
the situation with his usual judgment. The time had certainly arrived
when Corsini must be told frankly the part he was expected to play.

After all, there was nothing in the least dishonourable in what he
would be asked to do. Salmoros and the Count between them, with the
sanction of the Emperor, had set him on the high road to fame and
fortune. Their enemies were a band of traitors, headed by Zouroff,
assisted by Madame Quéro. He must and would, in honour bound, prove
his allegiance to his benefactors.

Having made up his mind, it was not long before the energetic Count
summoned the young Italian to a private interview in the Winter
Palace. As on the previous occasion, the same tall stranger was
present, lounging about the room--the stranger in whom Nello was later
on to discover the Czar of all the Russias.

Golitzine did not introduce them, but he made a brief allusion. "We
are going to have a rather confidential conversation, Signor, but you
can speak freely before this gentleman. He is perfectly in my
confidence."

Nello bowed, feeling a little embarrassed. He would have been more at
his ease if the tall stranger had not been present.

The Count proceeded in his smooth, conciliatory accents. "I hear very
flattering accounts, so far, of your directorship. You have excited
less envy than I expected, under the rather unusual circumstances.
And you have also won some golden opinions. I am told that Madame
Quéro, in particular, has distinguished you with a somewhat marked
friendship. And she is reported to be a rather difficult woman to get
on with. I know our late Director found her so, to his frequent
annoyance."

Nello blushed deeply. He was very sensitive, and it vexed him to find
that his friendship with the handsome Spanish woman had been already
commented on. If these comments had reached Golitzine, they had
probably also reached the Princess Zouroff and her daughter.

"The relations between Madame Quéro and myself are, I am pleased to
say, most cordial. Being the most distinguished member of the company,
as she certainly is, it insures smooth working all round," answered
the young Italian.

"Quite, quite," assented the suave Count. "Of course you have many
opportunities of meeting and chatting. I hear that our friend, Prince
Zouroff, is much chagrined that the charming lady in question is
friendly with you. You have met the Prince, I presume. I should like
to know your real opinion--of course in the strictest confidence."

The flush on Corsini's face deepened. He had met the Prince now on
several occasions at different houses in the city, and that arrogant
nobleman had always treated him with marked _hauteur_, hardly taking
the trouble to acknowledge his polite salutation.

"I should say, your Excellency, that he is sadly deficient in the
common courtesies of life."

There was a subdued laugh from the man in civilian clothes, standing
in the bay window. He turned round for a second and exchanged a
meaning glance with the Count. Golitzine knew what that glance was
intended to convey. "There was no love lost between these two."

"I think, Signor Corsini, you have very pithily defined our friend's
deficiencies. If he could have controlled his somewhat brutal
impulses and acquired a little more polish, he might have advanced
farther in his career than now seems possible."

There was a brief pause, which was broken by the Count.

"In the course of these chats with Madame Quéro, I dare say you learn
a good deal of her general habits. Women are apt to get confidential
with an agreeable male friend. I expect she has told you of those
secret little parties to which only men are admitted, which she has at
her villa?"

"I swear to your Excellency that to me she has never breathed a word
of them."

"I quite believe you, Signor. There is good reason why she should keep
silence. Her last party was on Saturday night. The next time you are
chatting with her, just mention it in a casual way, and ask her why
she does not include you, the Director of the Opera, in her intimate
circle?"

"I will certainly do so, Count," replied Nello just a little piqued at
the information he had received. It was strange that Madame Quéro had
never invited him to one of these, presumably, select parties.

"By the way," added the Count. "If she should ask you where you got
your information from I must request you not to mention my name.
Refuse to satisfy her curiosity. I have special reasons for this."

Nello promised that he would obey the Count's injunction, and rose to
leave, under the impression that the interview was ended. But
Golitzine waved him to his seat.

"Just a few moments more, Signor Corsini. I want to take you a little
farther into my confidence. We all agree that you are a very capable
artist, but I suppose you may sometimes have wondered why your way in
this country has been made so very easy; why, in short, your success
has been so rapid."

"It has occurred to me many times, your Excellency, but I did not like
to ask directly for an explanation," replied the young violinist
quietly. "I thought that would come at the proper time and place. Am I
correct in assuming that I am to be given it now?"

"It shall be given you now," answered the Count in an equally equable
voice. "And I am going to speak very plainly, Signor Corsini. Salmoros
admired your talent greatly; he told me that in a private letter, and
he wished to push you for reason of that; but he also perceived in you
different qualities that would serve his own purposes--purposes which
are closely associated with the welfare of the Russian Empire."

The Count suddenly rose and waved his hand in the direction of the
silent man, lounging in the bay window.

"I am going to make a somewhat dramatic introduction. I present Signor
Corsini, the protégé of Baron Salmoros, to the Emperor Alexander
himself, who has been a silent witness of our interview."

Corsini rose and bowed profoundly. Unused to the atmosphere of courts,
he was bewildered as to the exact etiquette on such occasions. Ought
he to kneel and kiss the Emperor's hand? He had a hazy notion he had
read somewhere that this was the prescribed ritual.

The Emperor put an end to his embarrassment by advancing and holding
out to him that strong hand which could bend a horse-shoe between its
fingers.

"I am delighted to welcome you, Signor. Salmoros has vouched for you.
Our good friend, Golitzine, who is a keen judge of men, assures me
that you are loyal and true to those who befriend you, as we have
done."

"My services, for what they are worth, are entirely at your Majesty's
disposal," answered Corsini fervently. It was but natural he should be
a little overcome by the gracious condescension of such a high
personage. He was not even petty enough to be chagrined by the
discovery that his sudden advancement was not due solely to his
artistic genius.

The Emperor, having said just what was needful, retired to the
seclusion of his bay window. The astute Count resumed the
conversation.

"I trust, Signor Corsini, there are no reservations in your
expressions of loyalty to those who have advanced and befriended you?"

"I am afraid I do not quite follow your Excellency."

"Tut, tut, my good young friend. I am quite sure we shall understand
each other very quickly. La Belle Quéro, according to report, is very
enamoured of you--an artist like herself, a handsome and presentable
young man; vastly, in my opinion, superior to the brutal Zouroff. Now,
this important thing is--what are your sentiments towards her?"

Nello's answer was very frank. "I have grown to look upon her simply
as a kind and good friend."

Golitzine drew a breath of relief. It was as he had hoped. The young
musician had placed his fancy on one far removed from him, by rank and
position. The comparatively coarse charm of the handsome singer could
not compete with the youthful beauty of the Princess Nada. A benign
expression stole over his lined face.

"And if you knew that Madame Quéro was taking advantage of the
hospitality of this country, of her apparently neutral position, to
conspire and plot with his Majesty's sworn enemies, you would be hand
and glove with us to find out what you could in order to frustrate her
designs?"

"Assuredly, your Excellency." Nello had started from his seat and
spoken with fervour. "My duty and my allegiance is to the Emperor,
yourself, and the Baron Salmoros. Madame Quéro, good friend as I
believed her to be, counts as nothing."

"That is precisely what I want to be assured of," said the Count.
"Now, Signor, put that question I suggested to Madame Quéro. It may be
she will tell you a deliberate lie. It may be she will seek to
entangle you in this plot, and make you one of the conspirators as the
price of her favour. I should prefer that, but I think she is too
clever to do it. Anyway, report to me how things go, which way they
go. And I rely upon it, that you are a faithful servant of the House
of Romanoff."

Nello assured him that he was, and returned to his hotel full of
thought.

So this was what the apparently benevolent Salmoros had secured him
for, to be a spy of the Russian Government. At first he felt a little
indignant. La Belle Quéro might be a traitress, a conspirator, but was
it his mission to unmask her?

Then his shrewd Latin sense came to his aid. Whatever their ulterior
motives, his powerful friends had incidentally helped him, and his
bounden duty was to them. If the handsome Spanish woman, who should
have no part or lot in the political concerns of Russia, had chosen to
mix herself up with a lot of base intriguers, that was her business.
It was, after all, diamond cut diamond.

Perhaps he was the more impelled to the cause which the wily Golitzine
had urged him to take, by the rumour in the circles where he chiefly
mixed that the names of Prince Zouroff and La Belle Quéro were
generally coupled together. It was currently reported that as soon as
the beautiful singer could get a divorce from her complacent
fisherman, she would marry the Prince. But in Roman Catholic countries
divorce is not easily to be obtained, and the fascinating Madame Quéro
was still united to the lover of her youth. And according to further
rumour, Zouroff was not inclined to hurry matters on. As a matter of
fact, he was much more interested in other things. Perhaps, also, the
lady was not quite so keen as formerly.

So Nello resolved to play his part, the part that it was his bounden
duty to play. If the Spanish woman and her confederates were playing a
low-down game, he was playing a straight one by outwitting them, in
the interests of the Imperial House which had shown him such
remarkable favour.

That night the two met, as Madame Quéro was going to her
dressing-room. She had sung better than ever that evening, never had
she aroused greater enthusiasm. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks
were glowing with triumph. She met Corsini's cold glance, and her
smile faded away.

"You do not seem very amiable to-night, Signor. Have I had the
misfortune to offend you in any way?"

The appealing look she darted at him was certainly that of a woman
more or less in love. For a moment, Nello felt a little ashamed of the
part he had to play; it seemed cowardly to hurt a woman. But after
all, his duty was to his benefactors, and if she was the traitress
they alleged she deserved no mercy.

Nello bowed, but made no immediate response. He was on the point of
moving away, when she laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

"Stay, I beseech you! Why are you so cold? I have sung better than
ever to-night, and yet you offer me no word of congratulation. Many a
time, when I have sung badly, you have been profuse of your praises,
and I thought we were such good friends!"

Nello saw his opportunity at once. "I used to think, Madame, that we
were very good friends."

"And has anything happened to alter your previous opinion?" inquired
Madame Quéro in a faltering voice.

Again the young Italian made a movement to pass on, and again the
impetuous woman detained him.

"If you please, we will not leave it where it is, with studied
coldness on your part. Please tell me how I have offended you."

Nello spoke with exaggerated courtesy. "Madame, I am too humble to
have the right to be offended. I, the mere Director of an Opera, you,
one of the idols of Europe."

The _prima donna_ stamped an impatient foot. "Signor Corsini, you are
trying my patience unduly. It is easy to see that you have some
fancied grievance. Will you be good enough to explain what it is, or
at any rate the nature of it?"

Corsini looked at her steadily. "Madame, you have been good enough to
call me your friend. If that is the case, why have I not been invited
to those little private suppers at your villa? So many go, that one
more would not have made a serious addition."

Her face went as white as death. "Who has told you such a falsehood?"
she stammered.

Nello never took his eyes off her. The white face, the stammering
tongue, proved that Golitzine was right. She had secret parties at her
villa, and she was dismayed to find that anybody had heard of them.

"A friend of mine, whose name I must not reveal, Madame."

Without another word Madame Quéro went to her dressing-room. From
there she despatched a hasty note to Prince Zouroff.




CHAPTER XIII


La Belle Quéro and the Prince Zouroff were sitting together in the
boudoir of the small villa on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.

They were both smoking cigarettes. Madame Quéro looked anxious and
perturbed, Zouroff surly and annoyed.

"Inez, you are very unreasonable. Why have you dragged me here at this
time of night? If your note had not said 'very urgent,' I should not
have taken myself away from more important matters."

La Belle Quéro flicked the ash of her cigarette on the carpet. "Once,
my friend, you would have come on the slightest request from me. I
should not have been compelled to mark my note urgent, eh?"

The Prince answered a little awkwardly. "Don't let us be too
sentimental, dear child. We have been good friends, we have got to a
closer degree of comradeship. Is it not an ideal relationship? Well,
what have you to tell me? You have not summoned me here for nothing, I
am sure?"

"Not even for the pleasure of your society, my most charming and
exquisite Boris?" inquired the _prima donna_, in a tone of raillery.

The Prince frowned. At the moment, the light caprices of women did not
appeal to him.

"You are talking nonsense, my dear Inez. Let us come to the point."

The Spanish woman came to the point at once, with an angry glitter in
her eyes. What a pity that Zouroff was not a little more gentle in his
dealings with women!

"Our little secret evening parties have been discovered, that is all.
It may give you and me food for reflection."

The Prince drew a deep breath. "Discovered! It is impossible. Who
dares to suspect us?"

"It does not matter who suspects us. It is enough that we are
suspected. I suppose the Secret Police have been at work."

Zouroff thought a few moments, and then a sudden light came to him. He
crossed over and grasped the beautiful young woman by the arm.

"Tell me the truth and don't palter with me," he thundered in his
harsh, raucous tones. "Where have you this information? But I can
answer the question myself. It is from that white-livered Italian,
Corsini. He is a spy in the pay of Golitzine."

Madame Quéro endeavoured to utter a faltering negative, but Zouroff,
always fond of brutal methods, tightened his grasp on the delicate
flesh.

Under the hypnotic influence of this brutal and commanding man, she
stammered forth the truth.

"You have guessed right. It was Corsini who told me, in a very brief
interview. He had heard the rumour from a friend."

Zouroff smiled. It was a very sinister smile at the best. The lips
curled up, the strong, white, even teeth showed themselves,
suggesting the fangs of a wolf.

"So this degenerate Italian is daring to thrust himself across our
path, is he? Well, then! _the Italian mountebank must disappear_."

Madame Quéro rose to her full height and braved the brutal and
truculent Prince.

"I think I have got a word to say in this: If he does disappear, I
shall go to the Emperor and tell him the whole truth."

"You have fallen in love with this young man, eh?" inquired the Prince
in a jeering voice.

"No, I will not say that. And besides, he is in love with somebody
else. But understand me, if you please"--she spoke with her old
imperiousness--"I will not have a hair of this young man's head
harmed. He is young, he is innocent; he shall not fall a victim to
your dastardly schemes."

Boris regarded her with his cold, hard glance. "Suppose I said that,
in that case, even La Belle Quéro herself must disappear. What then?"

Tears came into the beautiful woman's eyes. She looked at him, more
compassionate than angry.

"Oh, Boris, have you sunk so low, have you let your ambitions overcome
all the softer impulses of your nature? Would you really murder me for
fear I should tell, and frustrate your schemes?"

She looked very beautiful as she appealed to him. For a moment the old
love for her, the old infatuation surged up in his heart. He clasped
her to his breast, and murmured softly the words: "Why are you not
heart and soul with me, as you used to be?"

She disengaged herself gently from his embrace; it no longer thrilled
her. "You are no longer the same to me, Boris," she whispered, with
the usual subterfuge of the woman. "You have had other loves besides
La Belle Quéro."

"I do not admit that, Inez," he answered, in his rough, hard tones, a
little shaken by his emotion. "But remember, we are bound together by
solemn ties, by solemn oaths, to the same cause. Mark my words," he
added, with a sudden access of savagery. "If you play me false in that
respect, expect no mercy."

"If I play you false, Boris, I expect no mercy; I shall get none. I
know the manner of man you are."

"Yes, you know the sort of man I am, Inez. Pursue your little
flirtations, if you will. I shall not complain. But once play me false
in other matters, and your doom is sealed."

He strode out of the room, and the face of Madame Quéro went white as
she remembered the threat. The Prince loved her in his rough, brutal
way, but if she interfered with his plans, he would brush her out of
his path with as little compunction as he would kill a fly that
annoyed him with its impertinent buzzing.

And then, in a few moments, her thoughts went back to the handsome
young Italian, Corsini. She had, in an unguarded moment, given him
away. Zouroff's slow, but unrelenting, vengeance would pursue him. The
Prince had said that Corsini must disappear. In this autocratic
country people disappeared every day, and nobody seemed to wonder. It
was such a common occurrence.

Next day Madame Quéro, very disturbed, sought Corsini at his private
office at the Imperial Opera. Her object was to gain a little time
before Zouroff could put his evil designs into execution.

She approached him with her most winning smile.

"Signor, you reproached me for not having asked you to my villa. Will
you allow me to repair the omission? Will you sup with me,
_tête-à-tête_, on Thursday night?"

She had meant, in this intimate meeting, to give him a few hints as to
his personal safety without too closely inculpating Zouroff and his
associates, whom she still greatly feared.

Nello expressed a thousand regrets. After his duties at the Opera were
over, Prince Zouroff had requested his attendance at his Palace, as
Princess Nada had wished to again hear his rendering of the romance
which had now become celebrated.

The voice of the _prima donna_ grew agitated. She was very distrustful
of Boris and his ways.

"But, Signor Corsini, why go there when you know so well that the
Prince is quite indifferent to music? He does not care for any sort,
yours or mine."

Nello darted at her a shrewd glance. "I do not think myself, Madame,
that the Prince is a great connoisseur; but he is generally in his box
when you sing."

The beautiful Spanish woman blushed ever so slightly. "Ah, Signor, he
comes because I am the fashion. But all the same, I wish you would
not go."

Her manner was very insistent. Nello could see that she was greatly
agitated.

"Tell me, Madame. You have some reason for not wishing me to go?"

Madame Quéro hesitated. She dared not tell the truth, that she feared
there was some sinister design on the part of the Prince. Had he not
said that Corsini must disappear? Her blood ran cold at the thought.

She relied on her woman's wiles. "Suppose," she whispered softly,
"that I told you I was very jealous of the Princess Nada. Would that
keep you away?"

Nello looked at her steadily. A few days ago her request might have
had some influence on him, but now he knew her for a traitress. She
was only seeking to trap him for her own ends. He was proof against
her. Golitzine had warned him.

"The Princess Nada is an old friend of mine, Madame. I have promised
to play that little romance for her whenever she wishes to hear it. I
cannot break my promise."

The blood of the Biscayan peasant surged wildly in her veins. "You are
a fool, Signor Corsini; you do not know your real friends, I assure
you."

Corsini assumed his most diplomatic manner. He bowed profoundly. "I
have made many friends in St. Petersburg, Madame, but I shall always
remember that you were one of the first and best."

"Always excepting Princess Nada," remarked the _prima donna_
spitefully.

"Ah, Madame, I met her first in London; I cannot tell you under what
tragic circumstances. Yes, to be quite frank, the Princess has a
little niche in my memory that nobody else can occupy. You will
forgive me?"

Madame Quéro turned away from him scornfully, her warm Spanish blood
all aflame at the mention of her rival.

"Go then to your beautiful Princess, with her bloom of the lilies and
roses on her cheeks, and your fate be on your own head."

Corsini, in spite of his equable temperament, was a little disturbed
by the interview. Madame Quéro had been very insistent that he should
not go to the Zouroff Palace. What was there behind this insistence?

He had pressed her closely as to her reasons, and she had led him to
understand she entertained an undefined jealousy of the Princess Nada.
In all probability that was the true explanation. Anyway, she would
give him none other.

He was very busy during the next day or two with the cares of
management--the directorship of the Imperial Opera was no light task.
He met the singer several times, but she still appeared to nourish
resentment.

Well, he could not help it. Wild horses would not have kept him
away from the Zouroff Palace, from the few minutes' glimpse of the
beautiful young Princess. The Thursday drew near, and his pulses
beat with pleasurable anticipation. If Madame Quéro withdrew her
friendship from him, it would not break his heart; and if she was the
traitress that Golitzine assumed, her friendship was not worth having.

As for the woman herself, she was torn with conflicting emotions. At
one moment she hated him, at another she wept to think that he should
fall a victim to the machinations of the unscrupulous and unrelenting
Prince. And on the Wednesday, the day before the reception at the
Zouroff Palace, her softer feelings conquered.

She had seen the Prince the night before, and he had told her that he
was going into the country and would not return to St. Petersburg till
the midday of the Thursday.

She drove to the Zouroff Palace in the afternoon and sent up her card
to the Princess Nada. On it she had pencilled--"To see you on an
urgent matter."

The young Princess's maid, Katerina, who was devoted to her mistress,
brought in the card.

Nada read it, and she frowned. She was not at all conventional for a
girl of her rank and station, and she numbered many artists amongst
her friends. But she had heard of the reputation of La Belle Quéro.
Rumours had reached her of the peculiar relations between the singer
and her brother, the Prince. Obviously, she was not the sort of woman
she could receive in a private capacity.

"Go down yourself, Katerina, to this person, and be perfectly civil,"
she enjoined her maid. "Explain to her as politely as possible that I
am not able to see any visitors to-day."

The young woman conveyed the cold, decisive message to the waiting
Madame Quéro. A dull, red flush spread over the singer's face as she
recognised the reasons for the refusal to accord her an interview.

But she had not come unprepared for such a rebuff. "One moment, if you
please," she said, drawing forth a letter and handing it to the maid.
"Take this to your young mistress. I will wait till you return. I
fancy next time you will bring me a different answer."

The maid bowed and went back to the Princess. Nada tore the letter
open angrily. The woman was a trifle too insolent and persistent. Then
her angry mood passed as she mastered the brief contents.

"I regret very much to intrude upon you; I can quite guess that my
presence is not welcome. A great danger is threatening a certain
gentleman, Signor Corsini, for whom I believe you have some
friendship. You are the only person I can think of at the moment who
can avert that danger, especially as it is threatened by a member of
your own family. If you still persist in refusing to see me, please
seal up this letter and return it by your maid."

There was no longer any fear of refusal. Corsini threatened with
danger, and by a member of her own family, who could be none other
than Boris!

"Bring the lady to me at once, Katerina," she commanded the wondering
maid.

A moment later the two faced each other, the Princess standing in the
middle of the room, courteous but distantly polite, to receive her
unwelcome guest.

They looked at each other steadily, with dislike in their hearts, the
aristocrat of pure and ancient lineage, the woman who had played
barefoot in the gutter as a child, and won her way with her exquisite
talent to fame and fortune.

There was between them, at the start, the antagonism of class. But
there was also between them a still more subtle antagonism, recognised
by each: they had a mutual tenderness for the same man.




CHAPTER XIV


It was exceedingly difficult for a person of Nada's frank and open
temperament to resort to the arts of the dissembler, to feign a
cordiality she did not feel. Still, she managed to pull herself
together and, to a creditable extent, conceal her dislike of her
unwelcome visitor. With a grave courtesy she invited the Spanish woman
to seat herself.

"Your note has distressed me, Madame, for more than one reason. In the
first place I am very sorry to hear that Signor Corsini is menaced by
a great danger. I met him in London; ours was the first private house
he played at after his great success at the Covent Garden concert. I
have a great esteem for him as an artist, and I am shocked to think
that, after so short a stay in my own country, he should be the victim
of some sinister designs. Secondly, I am the more disturbed because
your letter tells me very plainly in what quarter these designs are
being entertained."

Madame Quéro spoke very quietly. The Princess disliked her, of that
she was assured, and she returned the dislike with compound interest.
Still Nada was doing her best to be civil and polite. It should not be
her fault if the interview was not conducted with perfect discretion
on both sides.

"If the danger had not been very great and also very imminent,
Princess, I should not have taken the liberty of intruding myself upon
you. We move in different worlds, it is true, but I am some sort of a
personage in my own sphere and not fond of exposing myself to rebuffs
at the hand of a waiting-maid."

Nada blushed at the shrewd, quick thrust, although the words were
spoken without the least heat.

"I am very sorry you should have felt offended," she faltered. "But
of course, I could not deliver the message myself."

Madame Quéro dismissed the subject with a graceful wave of the
hand. If Nada had the composure of the aristocrat, she had the
self-possession of the woman of the world. She could skate over thin
ice as delicately as anybody.

"I have every reason to know that your brother, Prince Boris, has
taken a violent enmity to this young musician."

"My brother, I regret to say, takes violent dislikes to many people,
for reasons that I have never been able to fathom. But I cannot guess
any motive for enmity against Signor Corsini. In what possible way can
their paths cross?"

"You will, of course, understand, Princess, that I cannot, in every
instance, speak as plainly as I could wish. You may have heard, it is
hardly possible you should not, that for some few years past Prince
Zouroff has been one of my most intimate friends."

Nada bowed her graceful head, while a faint flush rose to the fair
cheek. Of course it was common rumour in St. Petersburg that he was
greatly attracted by the handsome singer and was prepared to marry
her, if her husband could be got out of the way. Such an alliance
would not, naturally, recommend itself to the other members of the
proud and ancient house of Zouroff.

"It would certainly seem a strange thing that their paths should cross
in any way," was Madame Quéro's answer. "And here, I am afraid, I dare
not be as explicit as I wish. You must forgive me, Princess, if I
content myself with hints instead of full explanations. I can only
just tell you this: Signor Corsini has discovered a jealously guarded
secret of your brother's. Your brother, therefore, regards him as a
dange

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