Chapter 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 upstairs 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 d’Api” 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.