The Intriguers. Le Queux William

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.

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