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 Peron 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 Peron'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 Peron was nothing if not methodical and neat. There was nothing in the papers to reveal his ident.i.ty. With two exceptions they were absolutely unimportant doc.u.ments. These, according to Peron'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 p.a.w.ned, 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 doc.u.ment, and Anita was the sole heiress of his poor possessions--poor from the point of view of money value.

Two other letters were tied up together, the one addressed to Nello himself, the other marked "Private" and directed to the Baron Andreas Salmoros, 510 Old Broad Street, E.C.

The note to Nello, dated a few days after the more or less informal will, was short but to the point.

Peron informed his protege, at the time of writing, that his artistic career still hung in the balance. That even if he achieved a certain success, his career was an uncertain one. It behoved him therefore to set his ambitions in other directions which might yield more permanent results. The letter concluded as follows:

"There yet remains one person in the world who will still take an interest in me. For the remembrance of those days long ago, he may prove of service to you when I am gone.

After all is over with me, carry this letter to him yourself.

Trust it to no other hands. Of course you have guessed that Peron is an a.s.sumed name. If the Baron likes to reveal to you my ident.i.ty, he will do so. It will matter no longer to me."

Nello gasped, as he laid down the letter. "But dear old Papa Peron must have been a distinguished man at one time. He speaks of Salmoros as an old, I should say a great, friend of the long ago. Of course you do not know who he is."

Anita shook her head. She had never heard of the Baron Andreas Salmoros. How should she? Absorbed in her domestic cares, she never read the newspapers.

"But he is one of the greatest financiers in the world," cried Nello eagerly. "He is only second to the Rothschilds themselves."

And then it suddenly struck him that Salmoros was a very busy man, that approach to him was difficult. Peron had expressly said that he was to take the letter to him himself. If Peron had only written a private note introducing him, a note that could be posted! But the poor Papa had not thought of that, of course.

Then there recurred to him the altered circ.u.mstances which had taken place since that letter was written.

Then he was just Signor Nello Corsini, unknown and poor. To-day all the newspapers, London and provincial, had blazoned forth his name as a brilliant and successful artist. Even the great financier would welcome a great musician.

And even if he did not, the Princess Zouroff, at whose house he had played to-night, the Countess, at whose house he was playing shortly, would secure him a personal introduction. It was a certainty that the Baron's vast wealth enabled him to mix in their world.

CHAPTER VI

A month had elapsed since the funeral of the good old Papa, and the note addressed to the Baron Salmoros was still in Corsini's keeping.

He knew from a postscript in Peron's letter that no date except that of the year had been affixed to it, for obvious reasons.

The young man was considering his position. There was no doubt that the Baron had been asked to find him a post that would give a more a.s.sured future, remove him from the difficulties, the uncertainties of an artistic career. He was not yet quite sure in his own mind that he wanted to avail himself of this opportunity, if Salmoros offered it to him.

His month's experience had been very satisfactory. An enterprising gentleman, keenly on the alert for new clients, had introduced himself to him and established himself as his agent, unfolding a rosy future if he trusted himself to his skilled guidance. Nello had agreed. This plausible person, obviously of the Hebraic persuasion, knew the ropes, Nello did not. Besides, he had come with a recommendation from Degraux, who had spoken highly of his abilities in exploiting young artists, who had set their first step on the ladder of fame.

Yes, the month had been very satisfactory, if it had not reaped quite such a golden harvest as Nello and his sister had antic.i.p.ated. The agent booked him for private concerts as hard as he could, but there was a great variance in the fees. Some were considerable, some very moderate. Mr. Mosenstein--such was the agent's name--made light of the discrepancy. These were the anomalies incidental to the profession.

"The great thing is to get known, my dear boy, to be seen everywhere, in South Kensington as well as Belgravia," the plausible agent had explained. "If South Kensington pays you less than Belgravia and Mayfair, never mind. Better take a small fee than stop at home, earning nothing."

All of which went to prove to the shrewd young man that, if he had set his feet upon the first steps of the ladder, he had not, so far, mounted very high up. If the great Bauquel, who had now made it up with Degraux, condescended to play in South Kensington at all, he would demand a higher fee than he obtained in Mayfair, penalising the less fashionable quarter for the honour of his services.

Brother and sister, for Anita was no less shrewd than her brother, and had a fund of common sense, argued the matter out many times, now inclining one way, now another.

The present was distinctly satisfactory: it meant absolute wealth compared with the penury of the old days. The question was, would it last? Was he just, in a secondary sort of way, the fashion of the moment in certain circ.u.mscribed circles, to be shortly superseded by somebody who had scored in a night, by some fortunate accident, the same kind of sudden success? In short, should he take that letter to the Baron Salmoros or not? That was the vital question. In his undecided mood, he sought Degraux, who received him with great cordiality, but who had now made it up so effectually with the still powerful Bauquel that he had no opening for another violinist.

"Privately, my friend, I agree with your old Papa Peron that as an artist pure and simple you are the superior of Bauquel. But what can one do? Bauquel has got the name, he has ten years' reputation behind him. At any moment he may be relegated to a back seat, but at present he fills, he draws. He is an a.s.set to an impresario. In a word, he represents gate money. His name on an announcement fills the house.

Five years hence, I predict it will be very different."

Nello pondered these wise and sensible sayings. "Do you think it possible, Monsieur, that I could gain the standing of Bauquel? You have seen and known so much, I can believe in your opinion."

The great director shrugged his shoulders. "You ask me a little too much, my friend. I cannot see into the future. You have made a very considerable success, you created quite a respectable furore on that night--but----" he paused significantly.

"But!" repeated Nello quietly. "Please be quite frank with me. I want to hear the truth."

"I cannot say that you have progressed much since that night. You ask me to speak frankly, and I should say, on the contrary, that you have gone back a bit. No doubt you are doing quite well at these private concerts--that is Mosenstein's specialty. But, supposing I could ask you to play for me at my next big concert, which I can't because Bauquel will be there, I doubt if you would repeat the success."

"In a word, I am far from being in the first, even in the second rank?" queried Nello. His life had been so full of disappointments, that he had become hardened in the process. He did not seem as disturbed as Degraux had expected he would be by this uncomfortable cold _douche_ of plain speaking.

"Fairly well on in the second rank. Mark you, I am not speaking of your standing as an artist, but just from the box-office point of view. You see, one can never tell what goes to the making of a first-cla.s.s success. An inferior person often achieves it, a genius as often as not misses it."

He did not mention names, but Nello guessed, while he was speaking, Degraux had the great Bauquel in mind, who, he admitted, was the inferior artist.

The young man looked a little downcast, in spite of his stoicism.

Degraux clapped him on the shoulder.

"Now, my young friend, cheer up. After all, you are not doing so badly. Live as frugally as you can, put by every penny you can save.

If things go well, still save. If they go badly, you will have something put by. You remember our last conversation here, eh? I told you to join, as quickly as possible, the ranks of the exploiters instead of remaining in the vast army of the exploited."

Nello remembered that conversation well. Degraux's advice had made a great impression on him at the time.