laid a cloth upon the small and rather rickety table, arranged knives and forks. Then he produced half a fowl, two sorts of sausages, half a ripe Camembert cheese, and a dish of tinned fruit. When all his preparations were complete, he beckoned them imperiously to the table. He spoke in short, sharp accents, with the air of a man who is accustomed to be obeyed.
“At once, please! You are famished with that dreary standing in this arctic street, and it will be some time before you can get food. Please fall in at once.”
The sharp pangs of hunger were already gnawing the vitals of both brother and sister, the tasty viands were inviting enough; but they had observed the poorly furnished room. Monsieur Péron, in his small fastidious way, seemed to have an air of distinction, but his clothes were well-worn. Nobody could be as poor as themselves, but they felt sure this kind-hearted old Frenchman was far from being well-off.
Corsini raised a protesting hand. “Sir, you have been kindness itself already. You have warmed us, and we are very grateful, but we cannot eat you out of house and home.”
They guessed pretty accurately that these viands which he had produced with such abandon, were meant to last some little time. The average Frenchman is a small eater, and a very thrifty person.
Papa Péron beat the table impetuously. “Mon Dieu, do you refuse my little whim? I am not rich, I admit. One does not lodge on the third floor if one is a millionaire. That is understood. But I can show hospitality when I choose. To table at once, my children, or I shall be seriously displeased.”
The old gentleman, in spite of his frail appearance, was very masterful; it was impossible to resist him. Obediently they sat down, but their native politeness forbade them to eat very much. They just stayed their appetites, and left enough to satisfy their host for a couple of days at least. In vain he exhorted them to persevere. Brother and sister exchanged a meaning glance, and assured their host that they had already done too well.
When they had finished and were back in the two easy-chairs, basking in the warmth of the glowing fire, the old Frenchman went to a little cupboard affixed to the wall. On his face was a sly smile.
From this receptacle he produced a bottle, dusty with age. He performed some strenuous work with a somewhat refractory corkscrew whose point had become blunt with the years. In a trice, he produced three glasses and placed them on a small table which he drew close to the fire.
“This is fine Chambertin,” he explained to his astonished guests. “A dozen bottles were sent to me by an old friend, since dead, three years ago. In those three years I have drunk six – I am very abstemious, my children. To-night, in your honour, I open the first of the six that remain. We will carouse and make merry. It is a long time since I have felt so inclined to merriment.”
To this sally they could make no retort; they were still in state of bewilderment. To a certain extent they felt themselves in a kind of shabby fairyland. Was this strange old Frenchman as poor as appearances suggested – or a miser with occasional freakish impulses of generosity?
Papa Péron shot at them a shrewd glance. Perhaps he divined their thoughts. Long experience had made him very wise, possibly a little bit cunning.
“You think I am just a trifle mad, eh?” he queried.
With one voice, or rather two voices raised in a swift unison, they disclaimed the insinuation. They only recognised several facts: that he was very kind, very generous, very hospitable.
Papa Péron sipped the excellent Chambertin and fell into a meditative mood.
“I lead a very lonely life, and youth, especially struggling youth, has a great attraction for me. I watched you two poor children to-night through the little peep-hole in my blind. Mon Dieu! I guessed the position at once. You had come out in the snow and bitter wind, to try and make a living. You are two honest people, I am sure. N’est-ce pas?” They had been speaking in English up to the present moment, but momentary excitement, the stimulus of the Burgundy, had made him indulge in his native tongue.
They assured him that they were.
Papa Péron smiled a little sardonically. “Of course you are. If you were inclined in other directions, you with your talents, your sister with her good looks, would have taken up more paying trades than this. What have you earned to-night?” he concluded sharply.
Anita answered in a faltering voice. “Over three shillings, Monsieur.”
The sardonic smile vanished. A look of infinite compassion spread over the lined face.
“My poor children. Virtue is indeed its own reward.” He turned to Nello, and his eyes flashed fire. “And that charlatan, Bauquel, gets a hundred guineas for a single performance. And he is not in the same street with you.”
“But Bauquel is a genius, surely, Monsieur?” ventured Corsini deferentially. “I have never heard him play, certainly, but his reputation! Surely he did not get that for nothing?”
He spoke very cautiously, for although he had not known Papa Péron for very long, he had recognised that under that kindly and polite demeanour was a very peppery temperament. If he were crossed in argument, the old Frenchman might prove a very cantankerous person.
Péron snapped his fingers. “Bauquel, bah! A man of the Schools, a machine-made executant. He never half understands what he attempts to render.” Again he snapped his contemptuous fingers. “Bauquel, bah! A charlatan? It amazes me that the public runs after him. He has a powerful press, and he employs a big claque. Voilà! On the business side, I admit he is great; on the artistic side, not worth a moment’s consideration.”
“You understand music, Monsieur, you are a critic?” suggested the young man timidly. Papa Péron was evidently a very explosive person; it would not be polite or grateful to risk his anger.
For a little time the old man did not answer. When he spoke, it was in a dreamy tone.
“Once I was famous as Bauquel is to-day – with this difference: that I was an artist and he is a pretender, with not an ounce of artistry in him.”
“Was your instrument the violin, Monsieur?”
“Alas, no,” was the old man’s answer. “Chance led me to the piano. I think I did well. But I have always regretted that I did not take up the violin. It is the one instrument that can sing. The human voice alone rivals it.”
After a moment’s pause, he added abruptly, “Are you very tired?”
No, Corsini was not in the least tired. The warmth, the meal of which he had eaten sparingly from motives of delicacy, the Burgundy, had warmed his blood. He was no longer the weak, pallid creature who had set out from his lodging to earn a night’s sustenance.
“Why do you ask, Monsieur?”
“If you are not really tired, I would love to hear that exquisite romance again, with one or two brilliant variations. See, in that corner, stands a piano of fairly good tone. I will accompany you, or rather follow you.”
Corsini, his blood aglow with the generous stimulant, the strange circumstances, rose up, took his violin from its case, and drew the bow lovingly across the strings. The Frenchman went across to the piano, opened the lid, and struck a few chords with a touch that revealed the hand of the master.
For the next ten minutes the room resounded with the divinest melody. The deep notes of the piano mingled with the soaring strains of the violin.
Corsini,
