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“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.”
