Complete weird tales of.., p.1264
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1264
“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 three 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!”
Max; “Mais — mais — c’est moi l’Archiveque—” Claire (much disturbed); “Té! je le savais bien, Monseigneur!”
“That’s going to take like wildfire,” whispered Elliott lowering his cornet; “I wish I could see the expression on Max’s face—”
“And on Claire’s! Hear the prompter laugh!”
“Look out — here comes the flourish — ready — now! Enter the Queen, you know I”
“Tara — ta-ta-tata!” wheezed the cornets for the entry of the Queen, while Boissy’s snare drum rattled the salute, Clifford was sulky and spoke no more that morning, but the next day he went to see Selby.
“I’m d — d if I miss the first night of my own opera,” he muttered.
VIII.
Clifford was determined to see the first night’s performance but he decided not to tell Elliott, as that youth might also wish to see it. No, he would not mention it to Elliott; he would quietly arrange it for Selby to play the dummy and blow a cotton-stuffed cornet beside Elliott. True, the flourish of trumpets that was to announce the entrance of the Queen would be, strictly speaking, a flourish of one cornet, but Bock could never know and the audience wouldn’t either for that matter. So he spoke to Selby and gave him his stuffed cornet.
“There’s no cornet in the overture, you know — it’s that stringed affair of Lalo’s. You are to watch Elliott and pretend to toot when he does. The first flourish is when the Queen comes in,” he explained to Selby.
Then he went to bed, chuckling, for he had covertly secured the last seat but one in a prominent box, and he chuckled again as he thought of Elliott’s fury on beholding him among the spectators.
All the next day he chuckled too, watching Elliott furtively. The latter seemed very unsuspicious; he did not even mention a wish to view the performance. And at last the impatiently expected night arrived.
The Théâtre Bobinot was ablaze; banners waved from the mansard; posters flamed under the gas jets outside, — big yellow posters announcing “THE QUEEN OF SIAM!”
Inside the theatre the orchestra was assembling.
IX.
Selby pretended to fuss over the leaves of the score; he fiddled with his cornet a moment, then he sat down and looked up at the house.
The audience was not what is termed “brilliant,” but the house was jammed with the good people of the Montparnasse Quarter, sandwiched in between hordes of Latin Quarter students, actresses, grisettes and vivacious young persons who preside over the counters of the Bon Marché and Grands Magazines of the Louvre. A first night always filled the little theatre, box, pit, and gallery, and the announcement of the “Queen of Siam,” with Mlle. Claire Plessis, Mlle. Nevers and Max and Bourdeille, had stirred the Quarter profoundly.
Selby polished the mouthpiece of his cornet and called to Boissy, who left his snare drum and came over.
“Where is Elliott?” he asked.
“Hasn’t come yet. “Oh, you’re here to give Clifford a chance? It’s a good house, isn’t it?”
“Great,” said Selby pensively, “I bet Clifford makes a lot out of this. Here comes old Bock now.” The leader of the orchestra, vinous as usual, emerged from below, wiping his moustache, and walked straight to his seat.
“I wish Elliott would hurry,” said Selby nervously. “There’s no overture, — Bock cut it out because the play’s long enough.”
“I know — I know, but there he is taking a last look at the gallery and Elliott isn’t here. The thing begins with a flourish of trumpets to the Queen.” As he spoke, a figure came out of the little door under the stage, holding a cornet.
“Thank goodness,” said Selby, “here he is now, — no,! by jingo, it’s a new cornettist!”
The stranger sat down in Elliott’s seat, picked pensively at some cotton in his cornet, and smiled at Selby.
“Where’s Elliott?” said Selby hoarsely.
“In that box, — see him? He wants to witness the first act. He says” — But Selby sprang to his feet, pallid with fright.
“Can you play a cornet?” he almost shrieked. “No, — can’t you?” stammered the new arrival. Before the wretched Selby could reply, Bock rapped for attention; there came three heavy knocks on the stage floor behind the curtain, and, as the violins began the “Air of the Petticoat,” the curtain twitched, trembled, and began to ascend, exposing a brilliant stage and dozens of glittering limbs.
Clifford in his box, gazed at the chorus in rapture.
Then, as the chorus began to sing, he felt a violent tug at his coat, and, looking round, beheld Elliott.
“You!” faltered Clifford, “what are you doing here?”
Elliott’s face was shrunken with fright.
“Heavens!” he gasped, “they’ll miss the flourish! Those fellows can’t play! I — I didn’t know you had engaged Selby so I hired a man in the street” — Clifford was rooted to the spot; his eyes fixed on the miserable substitutes below. Then his hair slowly rose as Max cried joyously:
“The Queen! The Queen! Hark — hark to the trumpets’ shrill welcome!”
A dismal silence ensued. All eyes were turned on the orchestra where Selby sat frozen stiff with horror, while his companion, scarlet in the face, cheeks puffed out and eyes starting from their sockets, blew madly into his cotton-stuffed cornet from which no sound proceeded.
“Hark! The trumpets ring again!” cried Max, looking anxiously at Bock, who, speechless and furious, waved his wand toward Selby.
“Idiots! Play!” he roared at last.
“We can’t!” gasped Selby. The audience screamed.
Claire coolly walked to the footlights, but the sight of Selby’s face sent her into wild uncontrollable laughter.
Claire’s laughter saved the piece. The house stood by her from that moment, and the “Queen of Siam” went merrily on to the sound of a cornetless orchestra. For Clifford and Elliott and Selby had fled; — fled away into the snowy night, far, far from the haunts of men.
* * * * * *
This is a story of the Quarter, truer than it ought to be. You have, doubtless, heard it before. It is not original with me. I myself have heard it told in London.
Ah! when shall we be wise, Madame? — When shall we learn wisdom — we of the Quartier Montparnasse?
I could tell you how Clifford returned and was forgiven by, Claire and Bobinot, — but I won’t. I could tell you how Clifford presented his royalty rights to Claire on the occasion of her marriage to Monsieur Bobin — but there! — I nearly told you a stage secret! So I shall answer no more questions — unless you care to know about Colette and Elliott and Selby.
Do you?
ANOTHER GOOD MAN.
“AH! D’UNE ARDEUR sincere.
Le temps ne peut distraire,
Et nos plus doux plaisirs
Sont dans nos souvenirs.
On pense, on pense encore
A celle qu’on adore,
Et Von revient toujours
A ses premiers amours.”
Une conscience sans Dieu est un tribunal sans juge.
LAMARTINE.
I.
WHEN Fradley came to Paris he renounced literature as a means of livelihood, for, although his success as a writer in “Brooklyn Babyhood,” had been pecuniarily satisfying, it occurred to him that painting might be less fatiguing than poetry, and he decided to adopt it as his profession.
His illustrations to his own rhymes had been, up to the present time, of archaic simplicity, and were limited to pen and ink productions representing infants afflicted with exaggerated eyes and eyelashes.
Young mothers hovered over the pages of “Brooklyn Babyhood” spelling out his rhymes to crowing infancy. In these jingles, children were told that they were “arch” and “cute,” they were assured of their importance, their every action was applauded, solid pages of baby-talk were administered, and baby-ridden Brooklyn writhed with delight.
There were some people, however, who revolted, — some who even declared that Fradley was a public nuisance and that his rhymes inculcated self-consciousness; but these people were probably unnatural parents.
When he wrote his immortal poem, “How many toes has the Baby?” the Brooklyn “Banner” published the poem in full with a portrait of and a peon to “Brooklyn’s Brilliant Son.”
This was all very well but it couldn’t last. A rival poet from Flatbush got hold of the Brooklyn “Star” and began a series of poems, the baby talk of which made Fradley’s most earnest efforts fall flat. In vain he demanded to know the exact number of fingers and toes which the baby possessed; in vain he cooed and gurgled and bleated! The Flatbush poet was a woman, and she knew her business. When Fradley cooed, she cooed; when Fradley gurgled and bleated, she gurgled and bleated, backed up by the entire staff of the Brooklyn “Star.” In vain Fradley called for a counting of toes; she extended her researches into distant sections of baby’s anatomy, and Fradley was doomed. The last blow fell when the Flatbush poet produced
“BABY’S ICKLE TOOFY,”
which, translated freely, means “baby’s little tooth.” That settled it. Fickle Brooklyn fell down and worshipped the Flatbush lady, and Fradley sullenly packed his bag and sailed for France.
When Fradley took up his abode in the Latin Quarter, he expected that his arrival would create something of a stir. It did not. He waited a month for appreciation and finally asked Garland what he thought of his illustrations.
“I haven’t seen any,” replied Garland.
“I didn’t know you illustrated,” added Carrington, but noticing the mortification on Fradley’s face, said good-naturedly, “You know we don’t see much over here except the Paris papers; what do you illustrate for?”
