by Frank Norris
“Say,” he began excitedly as soon as he was within speaking radius— “say, have you heard? We’ve pulled it off. Bertrand got a letter from the director last night. Juliana has just told me.”
“I s’y, ol’ chap,” began the Horse, “don’t tell us it’s a go.”
“That’s what!” declared Buldy Jones.
“Strike! in what?”
“Van Arteveldt — the page’s part.”
“Oh, nifty, where?”
“Well, Horse Wilson, where do you guess?”
“The Chatelet.”
“Another shot.”
“Opera Comique.”
“Clean miss, m’ son.”
“The Renaissance.”
“No score.”
“Buldy, it ain’t, it ain’t the Grand Opera House?”
“Bull’s eye!” shouted Buldy Jones.
“Oh, mee Gord!” gasped Horse Wilson, collapsing weakly upon a bench.
II
In honour of the great event Buldy Jones gave a little dinner in his studio; and here I had the chance to get a good look at Juliana and become acquainted with her. She was not very pretty, but one forgot that after the first five minutes; indeed, would not have had her different for the prettiest face in all Paris. It goes without saying that she was smartly dressed, but neither did that count for much. Juliana was a squirrel in its wheel, a bird in its cage, a butterfly in its sunshine; she was perpetual motion — eyes, tongue, hand, wits were in one unending quiver. She effervesced, she bubbled; nimbleness that puzzled sight and sense was hers, and agility that stupefied, and delicate, swift little flashes that dazzled you and entranced you. So that in ten minutes’ time I was in love with her, and I, too, became one of the band, content — no, delighted — to “fetch-and-carry” for her.
But that evening was not one of unalloyed gaiety. A complication had arisen. As everyone knows, there are two page’s parts in Van Arteveldt, both equally important. Juliana was cast for one of these, but Bismarck that evening brought the news that another debutante, a niece of one of the directors of the Opera House, was to sing the other. This debutante’s name was Straus, mademoiselle or madame we did not know, nor whether it was Anne, or Mariette, or Angélique-Henriette-de-Rohan-de-Pompadour; just Straus, flat, crude, stubborn, Teuton Straus. There she was, Straus, a great block of stone come smash into all our hopes and delicately woven plans and intrigues.
“Name-of-a-name!” exclaimed Bayard (the Frenchman), when Bismarck had delivered himself of this news.
“‘Ere’s a rum go, for fair,” cried Horse Wilson.
“Dose ting!” exclaimed Bismarck. “Say, dose ting, dey meks me soh sick bei der stomach in. Der Herr Direktor will hev der claque enstructud, nicht war? Ach sure. Und der Straus will to der roof be upplaudut, and vat we get? Vat Juliana get? Nodding, bei Gott!”
“What do you think, Buldy?” said I.
“We’re stuck,” he observed.
“Oh, mon p’tit Buldy!” exclaimed Juliana, and with that began to cry.
“Is it as bad as all that?” I asked of Bayard in French.
“Ah, I believe you,” he answered in the same language. “No chance. The director will do his possible to achieve an unbelievable success for this kind of a bad canary. It is as he says, this Bismarck. The director will instruct Roubauld — that’s the chef de claque — to bisse Straus and to acclaim Juliana — not at all. This Roubauld gives the note to the claque, the claque gives the note to the audience, the audience gives the note to Paris, and Paris gives the note to the world, et puis voild. No chance.”
“So Roubauld rather commands the situation?”
“Roubauld,” observed Bismarck, “iss der kaiser von der Frainch Ubera. He hes der bower oaf a Bersian satrap mit der resbonsipilitee oaf a veaning beby.”
“Oh, he’s a czar, right enough,” commented Buldy Jones. “He never even appears in the Opera House. Works through his lieutenants. No one knows who they are. Places them in a part of the house where the claque can see ‘em, and manages the business with a code of signals.”
“As how?”
“Well, let’s say he wants only a moderate applause. He pulls his moustache, or something like that, and next day the Figaro says: ‘The audience at the debut of Mme. So-and-So, “se trouva un peu froid” (found itself a trifle chilly).’ Vigorous applause, he adjusts his opera glasses. Enthusiasm, he uses his handkerchief. There you are. Francisque Sarcey! what does he count for — or the singer’s voice? Not a bit of it. Reputations are made by the twirling of a moustache, and the world recognizes a God-given voice by a man blowing his nose.”
“Why not buy Roubauld?”
“Son, I’m not rich enough.”
“Well, pack the claque. The students—”
“We hef tink oaf dose ting long dime,” said Bismarck. “Vhere dose claqueurs sit? Bei der fauteuils d’orchestre, eh? Well, dere you must vear der evenun dress oder you shall not be admit. How menny dose stoodunts you tink der evenun dress gehabt?”
The objection was unanswerable.
III
All this was only a fortnight before Juliana’s debut. The week passed, and then ten days, and at last we had come to two days before the great night. We had been able to do nothing. Horse Wilson had observed that “‘ere was a proper mess,” and one and all we agreed with him. Juliana had made up her mind to go through with it as best she might, and trust to luck and her own talents. Already the other debutante was being boomed, and when the posters came out her name was in huge letters, large even as that of Escalais, who sang the leading role, while Juliana’s did not even appear at all.
On the second day before the performance Buldy Jones and I walked to St. Cloud and took a very late luncheon at a little cafe in the town. The kismet that watched over Juliana plainly directed our steps thither, for before we had left the place we had made a most important discovery. It was luck — sheer, inconceivable, unprecedented bull luck — of the kind that takes your breath away, and as often as not so dumfounds you that you are unable to act on it. But — kismet again — it was part of this wonderful luck that we had the sense to use it. We had finished our luncheon and were burning the sugar for our coffee when Buldy Jones fell into conversation with the man who played the violin in a little four-piece orchestra that had been strumming and scraping in the back of the cafe for half an hour previous. I do not remember now what started their talk, nor do I remember how the subject of the claque of the Grand Opera House was introduced, but all at once — a bolt from the blue — I heard:
“Ah, yes, it is I who am the sous-chef for the week. In the daytime I perform upon the violin at this cafe, but in the evenings, hah, autre chose, I direct the claque at the Opera.”
“Well, well! You don’t tell me,” said Buldy Jones. “Quite so; the cuk-cuk claque. I would very well wish, monsieur, to offer you something to drink.”
We drank with the sous-chef of the claque of the Opera, and the drink was Veuve Cliquot. We were stupefied with admiration at the manner of his playing of the violin. We allowed him to pretend that he was quite a figure in the beau monde, and, ah, we assured him that in the next Franco-German War the cuirassiers would stable their horses in the Reichstag buildings of Berlin. He lived in the Rue du Temple, numero 20, did this indiscreet sous-chef; that also we found out (in case of emergency), and he would be at his post in the cafe of St. Cloud until five o’clock of the evening on which Juliana was to make her bow to the audience of the Opera. Would he not permit us to invite him to dine with us that evening? Indeed, he would be charmed. At this very cafe? As the gentlemen wished. Till Monday, then. Till Monday, bien entendue; and we parted from him and retired around the corner and leaned against the wall to get our bearings, and to be assured that we yet trod the stable earth.
“He’s Roubauld’s man,” faltered Buldy Jones.
“The minion of the potentate.”
“We — we — we — got him. We got the man who’s got the claque.”
&nbs
p; “But, Buldy, do we dare?”
“Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Buldy, “I don’t know. Oh, man, if we — we could suppress him — at the last moment — on Juliana’s night, the claque won’t know what to do, and Juliana will break even with Straus, and that’s all we want.”
IV
We found the “band” at Juliens’ pottering over their esquisses for the week, and our talk was long and vehement. We felt like a committee of insurrectionists plotting counter moves.
As a result of it all, Bismarck, Horse Wilson, Bayard, Buldy Jones, and I foregathered in the cafe at St. Cloud about four hours before the curtain went up on the first act of Van Arteveldt. The sous-chef was there, and Buldy Jones began ordering a dinner that consisted chiefly of things to drink. Halfway through, Bismarck raised his champagne glass.
“Gesundheit!” he exclaimed. “Gesundheit, Devanbez.” (This was the sous-chef s name.) “Hier iss der goot success oaf der yunge leddy vat meks der debut to-night, eh?”
“Ah, the mademoiselle who sings the role of the page.”
“Yes,” observed Buldy Jones; “we hope you will give her all the encouragement she deserves, Monsieur Devanbez.”
“You may count on me, messieurs.”
“Which,” muttered Horse Wilson in English, “is just what we won’t do, you bally old rotter.”
“Fill ’em up again,” said Buldy Jones, when the toast had been drunk. “I’ve a better one to propose.”
We filled them up and proposed “The Claque”; we filled them a third time, and proposed “The Opera”; we filled them a fourth time, and — standing — gave “L’Armee Francaise.” It was then that Devanbez began to sing the “Marseillaise,” and we shook hands furtively under the table, for we saw the beginning of the end.
When he developed oblique and scathing sarcasm in his remarks to Bismarck, interspersed with terrible observations as to Alsace and la revanche, we concluded that our cause was won. It was about quarter to seven.
“Aha!” Devanbez was saying. “Wait then a little, you others, you Prussians. The lion sleeps, the lion of Belfort. When he shall awake himself” — he struck a terrific attitude— “he will in one mouthful eat you, thus.” He devoured an olive — pit and all — at a gulp.
“He freezes me with terror, this man,” murmured Bayard.
But Bismarck was particularly touchy on his nationality, and at this promptly remembered that he was a German.
“Pouf! paf! Dot line von Bailvoort!” he said to us derisively. “Unzer Fritz hev alretty yet long dime cut der claws of him. If dose Frainch soldier coom cross der frontier, say, I tell you vat ve do, ve Broosians, ve hev der boliceman arrest ‘em.”
Devanbez, understanding only that he was set at naught, leaped up.
“What-is-that-which-it-is-what?” he vociferated. “I tell you the next time Bazaine will not betray us. Ah, no, Germany is going to have the bad quarter of an hour—”
Buldy Jones had to interfere to prevent hostilities.
We left the cafe, taking Devanbez between Buldy Jones and myself, and walked through the woods in the direction of the railway station. By that time Devanbez was no longer a factor to be considered in the affair of Juliana’s debut. His hat fell off twice. Each time Buldy Jones picked it up and clapped it upon his head.
At the station we learned that the Southern Express from Paris to Chalons was due in about five minutes. Buldy Jones bought a ticket to Chalons and return, and put twenty-five francs into the vest pocket of Devanbez, sous-chef de claque. We had no more than time to complete these arrangements when the train charged into the station.
“Up with you,” said Buldy to Devanbez. “The Paris train, monsieur. Here’s your ticket. Bon voyage! Steady! Not there — you bought first class, don’t you remember? In with you! Guard! Where’s the guard? Here, this man, our friend, is to get down at Chalons, understand? You’re off, Devanbez. Good-bye.”
“Au plaisir de vous revoir, messieurs! Hoopla! á bas Bismarck! Vive la République!
“Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire...”
But as the train drew away Bismarck shouted after it: “Hoch der Vaterlandt! Hoch der Kaiser! Do and you forged to bissé Straus to-night.”
V
Shall I ever forget that night — the night of Juliana’s debut! Looking back at it now it resolves itself into one stupendous blur of unfamiliar sights, into one vast blare of confused and raucous noises. I know now just how the First Consul felt when he faced the throng in the Hall of the Ancients, frightened at the uproar he had unchained, at the pandemonium he had provoked, but with just enough courage to face the music, just enough daring to carry out the plan that might succeed or that might collapse.
After we had sent Devanbez off to Chalons, we thought for the moment (as the train carried us back to Paris) that we had brought off our coup, that we had done the best we could. But all at once Buldy Jones complicated the situation still further.
“Look here,” he said abruptly; “I’m not saying much, but what do you think of that?”
With the words he exhibited two or three slips of paper, with the air of one who flourishes a banner. We looked at them stupidly.
“I s’y, ol’ chap,” said the Horse, “what’s it all about? Get on with it. What’s these?”
“This,” said Buldy Jones, holding up a blue oblong of pasteboard, “is the ticket for Devanbez’s seat. Will you look where he sits?”
“Sapristi!” murmured Bayard, as he looked at it. “He has a box, the ruffian.”
“No,” said Buldy Jones, “we have it. Now, then, cast your eye on this. I found this and the tickets in his hat.’Member, it kept falling off?”
“Du Lieber Gott!” exclaimed Bismarck.
“Why, man alive!” cried Horse Wilson. “Why, Buldy Jones! S’y, strike me straight. It’s the code.”
“Right you are, m’son. It’s the signals he uses to direct the claque, and we get ‘m.”
“But, oh, ‘sy, what a rummy go! Buldy, y’ can’t, y’ don’t mean to s’y that — that — oh, my aunt! — that you’re going to use ‘em?”
“Son,” said Buldy Jones, tapping his chest, “watch me.
We boomed into Paris on the stroke of seven-thirty, we hacked it across the city ventre-a-terre to the Maison Lafitte, caught the proprietor in the act of shutting up, and rented and donned four abominable dress suits, four broken opera hats, and four pair of gruesome white gloves. Breathless, hysterical, shambling in our rented plumage, we debouched into a box in the second tier next the stage, were kicked into a realization of our surroundings by Buldy Jones, and sat up with quaking hearts to face the glitter, the murmur, and the perfume of le tout Paris. The overture was being played.
“Buck up, buck up!” adjured Horse Wilson. “No need of funking.”
“That’s what I say,” growled Buldy Jones. “We’re losing our nerve when we hold a straight ace-high. Now, attention. I’m going to try ‘em.”
The overture was drawing to a close. We could see the claque perfectly well, two rows of the fauteuils d’orchestre filled with solemn nondescripts in dress suits (that, like ours, were, no doubt, rented or borrowed), melancholy harlequins, stuffers, bought like dishonest voters in an election at home.
“Steady now,” muttered Buldy Jones. “I guess we think that overture rather nifty. What’s the signal? — Oh, I remember.”
The eyes of the harlequins were furtively turned to our box. The overture closed with a flourish of violins and a ruffle of the snare drum, and Buldy Jones passed his hand through his hair. Instantly a loud, well-sustained clapping of hands developed. The claque was obedient, and a little after the audience followed its lead. The leader of the orchestra turned about and bowed. The claque still applauded.
“Here, down brakes,” said Buldy Jones. “He don’t need to get it all.”
“Right, oh,” muttered Horse Wilson. “Shut ’em off. Shut ’em off. They’ll keep it up all night if you don’t.”
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sp; Buldy Jones folded his arms. Promptly the applause died away, and the leader of the orchestra, left stranded in the middle of a bow, returned precipitately to his seat and tapped for the prelude.
The curtain rose, and the opera began. A chorus by the burgesses of Ghent was followed by an aria and recitatif by the captain of the city watch. Then the sister of Van Arteveldt and her confidante appeared and sang a trio with the captain; after this the sister was left alone (the part was that of the Leading Lady, and was sung by Escalais herself) — and intoned an elaborate solo.
“S’y, give her a show,” said Horse Wilson, “she’s doing her best.”
“All right,” answered Buldy, who was familiar with the opera. “She has a high note along in here pretty soon. I’ll touch ’em up then. Ah, there it is!” He stroked his hair, absolute silence; he repeated the motion, no response; and poor Escalais, who seldom failed to get a hand at this point, was forced to go on with but a feeble flutter from isolated corners of the house, for the audience, depending on the claque, unquestionably followed its lead.
“Say, then,” exclaimed Bayard, “there is something which does not go.”
“Some blyme thing wrong,” observed Horse Wilson. “Where’s your bloomin’ code?”
Buldy Jones put his hand to his pocket, then turned suddenly pale.
“Boys,” he gasped, “I left it in my other pocket when I changed at Lafitte’s. I was working these first signals from memory.”
VI
“Himmel!” groaned Bismarck.
“And Straus and Juliana both come on in the very next scene,” I cried. “There, the chorus is coming back, and here comes the Duchess of Ghent; the Queen and court come on in a jiffy.”
All at once the claque roared to the roof; there were even cries of his, his. The acclamation came squarely in the middle of a chorus of old men, a number that was only a “filler” and never applauded.