Chapter 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 l’on revient toujours_
_A ses premiers amours._”

ANOTHER GOOD MAN.

Une conscience sans Dieu est un tribunal sans juge.—LAMARTINE.