“Still,” he said, “the Quarter will never stop laughing — er — Colette in her coupé and you in the orchestra—”
“I shall not drive in my coupé until Dick wishes it!” cried Colette, crimson and white by turns. “For your bad taste I — I pardon you.”
Too utterly snubbed to have a mind of his own, Clifford meekly made his peace with Colette and opened the door for her and Elliott.
“Are you sure we can get the place?” he asked. “Perhaps Bobinot won’t want us.”
“Bobinot must!” said Colette; “I shall call upon Claire Plessis who is to sing the première rôles there. She is sweet; she is also from Tours. That is my country. And I love her very much.”
“Where does she live?” inquired Clifford with a guilty start.
“Upstairs. I shall call upon her to-morrow. Dick, are you coming? Then good-night, wicked one! Come, Dick, dear! To your evil conscience I leave you, Monsieur Clifford” — and she laughed and gave him her gloved hand.
Clifford closed the door gently behind them. For a moment he stood staring at the panels, then raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“I wonder,” he thought, “I — I wonder whether Claire will tell Colette?”
He shivered. The Quarter is pitiless in ridicule. Elliott came back late that night, but he was cheerful and he whistled as he shook the snow from hat and coat and stamped around the studio.
“We’ll see Bobinot to-morrow,” he said; “I tell you it’s not a bad idea — all Colette’s, too!”
“I thought you and Colette had agreed to disagree,” observed Clifford.
The other reddened a little. “We have,” he said—” for three months.”
Before he was ready for bed he missed the canary birds and questioned Clifford, but the latter told him to mind his business. This Elliott cheerfully complied with and went to bed.
“By the way, did you dine to-night?” he called out before he closed his door.
“Yes,” snapped Clifford.
V.
Thanks to Colette and Claire, through the medium of Boissy, the little snare-drummer, who lived on the top floor, Monsieur Bobinot consented to give Elliott and Clifford a trial.
Boissy presented them to Monsieur Bobinot as two eminent American virtuosi, but Bobinot sneered openly.
“Don’t try to stuff me,” he said; “they’re two students on their uppers. What do I care as long as they can play?”
“They — they are very eminent” — pleaded Boissy— “their — hm! — technique is so original, Monsieur Bobinot—”
Bobinot turned a pair of hard bright eyes on Clifford.
“En effet, Monsieur Bobinot, we are students,” said Clifford with magnificent condescension; “but we can blow harmony out of a broken bottle; — Elliott, kindly play ‘The Battle of Buena Vista’ for Monsieur Bobinot.”
Elliott drew his cornet from beneath his overcoat and gravely performed the stirring war march with hideous variations, while Clifford imitated a drum with his knuckles on the window pane.
“Cannon,” said Clifford, banging on a sheet of tin which lay on the floor.
“Let my properties alone!” shouted Bobinot.
“Drums, — the Mexicans retreating,” continued Clifford serenely, returning to the window.
“Humph!” snorted Bobinot.
“Cries of the wounded!” observed Clifford, and emitted a series of piercing screams while Elliott continued his variations.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” wailed Clifford, winking at Boissy who had sunk helpless on a chair, weak with laughter.
“Stop!” thundered Bobinot.
Elliott finished his variations and looked expectantly at the manager of the “Théâtre Bobinot.”
“It’s d — n fine,” said Monsieur Bobinot, “but I could manage to exist and earn an honest living without your artistic collaboration. I say I could dispense with your musical services, but I cannot, Messieurs, afford to lose from my personnel, two such splendid examples of human impudence. Consider yourselves engaged. Boissy, I’ll pay you for this!”
“Then,” said Clifford artlessly, “let’s cement the contract with a bottle!”
“Bottle of what?” demanded Elliott; “we haven’t any money! You mortify me!”
Clifford smiled blandly. “Come, Monsieur Bobinot, no hard feelings you know! What shall it be?”
“Whatever you like, Messieurs,” said Bobinot grimly; “I’ll take it out of your salary.”
But Monsieur Bobinot was better than his word. He saw at a glance that the young fellows were in earnest, and he not only acted the host very decently, but, as Boissy dragged the two young men away, he handed them each a week’s salary in advance.
“It’s for your infernal cheek!” he said; “come to rehearsal at ten!”‘
The first week passed without a hitch. Elliott played the orchestrated scores for Clifford, and the latter, being quick and instinctively musical, learned his part by heart, to the utter demoralisation of the tenants on the upper floors. Mademoiselle Plessis stood it as long as she possibly could and then sent for Clifford.
“Monsieur Clifford,” she said seriously, “this must stop.”
“If it stops I stop,” said Clifford; “I can’t live on air.”
“No,” she said, “you are neither a chameleon nor an angel.”
“Not an angel yet, but on the floor below,” he said humbly.
Mademoiselle Plessis tapped her foot against the fender and brushed the leaves of her rôle with the tip of one white finger.
“Mon ami,” she said, “I cannot learn my rôle if you toot all day on that cornet.”
“What am I to do?” inquired Clifford miserably.
“You must have certain hours to practise. Monsieur Boissy plays on his drum from two until four; Monsieur Castro chooses that time for trombone exercise; why can you not play your cornet during those hours?”
“I will,” said Clifford craftily, “but what shall I do from four until six?” He looked at her with eyes that appealed and languished.
“Do?”
“Ah, yes! It will be lonely up there on the floor above — won’t it?”
Mademoiselle Plessis raised her clear eyes to the ceiling.
“Is it so very lonely down there? It is not, — up here.”—’
“Very. I think of you all day.”
“Of me? How foolish!”
“Yes; I wish I were able to aid you to learn your parts.”
“But you can’t—”
“I could if you’d let me read your cues—”
—” I don’t need that—”
—” Don’t refuse—”
—” I must—”
—” Don’t—”
—” But I do! And you are very silly.—”
* * * * * *
So it was arranged that Clifford should bleat on his cornet from two until four, during which time Claire would go out for a walk; and from four to six, when Claire was at home, he might aid her by his presence and advice and judiciously regulated sympathy.
“The idea!” she said, with a pretty gesture of disdain; “you will only bother me. You had much better write me a little play.”
“A ‘lever de rideau!’” exclaimed Clifford; “by Jove, I’ll do it!”
“Can you write French well enough, mon pauvre ami?”’
“No, but you can supply all the localisms and wit. Will you?”
“We might try,” she said with a doubtful smile. She was very much interested, however, and when, a few days later, he brought her a rough sketch of the “Queen of Siam,” she read it with serious interest. “It is a pretty idea,” she said, flushing with pleasure. Then, resting her chin on her hand, she invited him to sit beside her.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “if we are really going to collaborate, we must be very grave and serious for you are not working for pleasure and I am earning my bread—”
—” And honey, — oh! you’ll have woodcock on toast and cham
pagne too if this play goes!”
“Then let us make it go,” she exclaimed enthusiastically.
“Let’s!” he cried with equal fervour.
There was a pause.
“The play won’t go if you don’t take your pen in hand,” she said.
—” But I will—”
“Then hadn’t you better release my hand?”
And so the afternoons wore away while with heads together over the manuscript they chattered about exits and entries, scenarios, cues and “pan coupé’s” and Clifford rose to the occasion, displaying a wit which matched her dainty cleverness and struck the quick warm spark of sympathy between them.
“Delicious!” she would laugh at some hastily pencilled bit of dialogue, and then, bending over the table: “Don’t you think that we might shorten the King’s lines just here? See, I only strike out these three words — ah! see how much better it reads!”
“Much better! — very much better!”
“Very much; it flows smoothly now — oh! oh! how funny to make the Queen threaten them! How did you ever think of that?”
“Why, it follows naturally — you see she is all in armour, and the spurs trip up the archbishop—”
And so the afternoons wore away.
This was all very pleasant, but it had its drawbacks and one winter evening toward six o’clock Clifford jumped up and stared at the clock horrified:
“Good heavens!” he muttered, “they are giving ‘Pomme d’Api,’ to-night and I haven’t practised the music! What the deuce shall I do!”
“And you can’t read music at sight? Oh, what a shame! It is all my fault, mon ami,” she cried in contrition.
“No it isn’t — only the afternoon flew, and I never thought. Bobinot will sack me for this!”
“You must get a substitute,” she said,”it’s often done.”
“Where can I find one?”
“Ask Boissy, he knows lots of people who do that sort of thing, — there’s his drum now! go down and see him — hurry — go quickly, mon ami, — Oh! you mustn’t! — you mustn’t! There! my gown is all in wrinkles. I do not wish you ever to return, — no, never, — go quickly now or Boissy will be gone! — hasten! — ah well — then I will try to forgive you, mon ami.”
As he galloped down the stairs and out into the street he felt as though he were treading on clouds — rosy clouds.
“Nevertheless,” he said to himself, “I must never kiss her again.”
VI.
The substitute cornet player was a success but was also very expensive. Clifford paid him thankfully, but it made a large hole in his meagre weekly salary, and he decided to do without substitutes in future. He explained to Elliott how it was, and the latter young gentleman, who viewed Clifford’s infatuation for Claire with alarm, shook his head and sighed.
“You can’t afford it, my son. Suppose you hadn’t been able to get a cornet player? Bobinot would have bounced you.”
“Now I am not so sure of that,” said Clifford, who had been consulting Claire. “I understand that the leader of the orchestra — what’s his name—”—” Bock—”
—” Bock, — I understand that he’s generally drunk and can’t tell whether one or two cornets are playing.”
“But he would see your empty place.”
“I could get any ordinary man to sit there, — Selby would do it for the lark. If he pretended to play, Bock wouldn’t know the difference. I had to pay that substitute of mine twenty francs. Kid Selby would do it to oblige me.”
“And he could stuff the cornet with cotton,” suggested Elliott.
“Exactly — Bock would never know. So any time we want a vacation we’ll call on Selby, stuff his cornet with cotton, and let him blow his cheeks out while the other man does the playing? Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get Kid Selby — it’s my turn for a vacation to-night,” replied Elliott laughing, and walked out, slamming the great doors.
Clifford opened his desk, took out a pile of manuscript, and, thrusting them into his pocket, hurried up-stairs to begin his daily collaboration with his fair neighbour. Time flew for them, but the “Queen of Siam” was slowly taking the shape of a curtain-raiser whose fate would soon be determined. The lyrics were fortunately few, and of course Claire rhymed them, for poetry in French was beyond Clifford’s ken. And she rhymed them charmingly, setting them to the music of quaint old songs that all France knows. Clifford hung breathlessly over the piano, gaping with admiration.
Monsieur Bobinot had read the piece and had found it suitable, — so suitable in fact, that for a long time he refused to believe that Clifford could be the author.
“Voyons, confess he hashed it up from some old vaudeville!” he repeated to Mademoiselle Plessis, until at last he was constrained to accept it as original. Of course he cast Claire for the “Queen”; she refused to stir a step unless he did; and the other parts were given to Mesdames Paule Nevers, Bonelly, Mario-Widmer, and to Messieurs Max, Bourdielle, Deberg, Bayard, Brunet, and Simon. Naturally Max was cast for the Archbishop of Ept, and Bayard for the King, while Bourdeille’s character, “Syleuse,” was written entirely with the view that he should create the rôle.
Bobinot grumbled. It seemed to him that he had nothing to say about anything in his own theatre, but Mademoiselle Plessis had her way and the property man and costumer were already at work on the designs that Elliott furnished gratis. Deberg orchestrated the score.
“It would cost me,” shouted Bobinot in a fury, as he blue-pencilled Elliott’s voluminous directions on each drawing,—” it would cost me more than my theatre is worth to make these costumes according to Monsieur Elliott’s advice. He can save himself literary work, and me several sous worth of blue pencil by sticking to his designing and leaving the execution to a man who wears a head in the proper place!”
The Théâtre Bobinot was flourishing. The “Serment d’Amour,”
“Princess des Canaries,”
“Mignapour,”
“Le Jour et la Nuit,” followed successively “Le Panache,” and “Pomme dApi” of Offenbach; and already in the programme of “Les Domestiques,” the comedy by Grangé and Deslandes, appeared the announcement of the preparations for “The Queen of Siam.”
“A comedy in three acts by M. Foxhall Clifford and Mlle. Claire Plessis;” for, at Bobinot’s demand, the “lever de rideau,” had been expanded into a three act musical comedy.
Bobinot said very little in praise of it either to Clifford or to Claire, but he bragged about it to everybody else in the Latin Quarter as well as in the Montparnasse Quarter. He refused to pay any cash for it, but signed a contract for a generous royalty, and Clifford and Claire were more than satisfied. The former promised princely sums to Elliott for his costume designs as soon as the money began to pour in. Elliott was grateful and redoubled his pages of instructions for Bobinot, whose curses rang loud and deep as he slashed through them with his blue pencil.
Clifford took a good many days off from the orchestra, and, finding that a cotton-stuffed cornet in the hands of the untutored and unmusical Selby was perfectly satisfactory, took more days off. Selby for his part, liked the fun and became the envy of the Quarter. At times, however, Clifford had slight clashes with Elliott when they both wanted the same night off.
“Come, come,” Clifford would urge, “Claire isn’t on to-night you know, and I’ve promised to dine with her at Thirion’s.”
“And I’ve promised Colette to meet her at the Vachette.”
“But you can meet her there to-morrow and I can’t meet Claire because she takes Nevers’ place in ‘Pomme d’ Api.’”
Then Elliott would mutter; “the deuce take you and Claire!” But he always gave in and tootled away in the orchestra, while Selby, the delighted substitute beside him, puffed and perspired over a noiseless cotton-stuffed cornet. Bock, the besotted, never doubted that both cornets were playing.
“Thank goodness this won’t last,” thought Elliott; “our thr
ee months’ poverty is up on Monday and then! — then this cursed orchestra can go to the devil!”
Rat-tat-tat — ! rattled Bock’s baton as he glanced at Elliott.
“Oh you old ass!” grumbled Elliott, toot! toot!—” go to Guinea!” — toot — toot — tootle — too-o-ot.”
VII.
The humiliating part of it was that neither Clifford nor Elliott could attend the rehearsals of “the Queen of Siam” except in the orchestra. Bobinot was omnipresent, and they were obliged to occupy their places.
Now the orchestra was sunk in a pit so far below the footlights that although the musicians were visible to the audience, nothing on the stage could be seen by the musicians themselves.
When Clifford was not obliged to blow his cornet, he could hear Claire’s sweet voice:
“Oh, papa dear I much prefer
My helmet and my steel-ringed shirt,
My jewelled hilt, my gilded spur,
Targe, Casque, Tassett and Bassinet
So take away my waist and skirt!
Oh, take away
Oh, take away
Oh-h! take away my maiden’s skirt!”
Then he would stretch and crane his neck to see, but Bock always caught him with the angry rat-tat-tat!—” hé! la bas!” and he would clutch his cornet and breathe music and anathemas. “It’s a pretty state of affairs if I can’t see my own play,” he grumbled to Elliott, “I’ll fix that ass, Bock — just wait!” When Claire and Georges Max held the stage, and the repartee made even the prompter chuckle, Clifford’s curiosity almost crazed him, and he cursed impartially, Bobinot, Bock, the orchestra and himself.
Claire was delicious, Max irresistible. Clifford squirmed and listened:
Claire; “L’archeveque!”
Max; Mais non, il faut” —
Claire (excited); “Qu’il vienne! Qu’il vienne! J’y suis, J’y reste! — Et quil fait attention à mes éperons!”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1113