Chapter 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 champagne 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.”