He grew more and more intimate with the Tenor. The latter, after having been refused at the opera--thanks to a vile conspiracy--had arrived at the practical conviction that this Grand Opera was a decaying inst.i.tution, with which he would scorn to have any relations, and had accepted an engagement in a cafe chantant of the Faubourg Montmartre, where he earned a comfortable subsistence.

At first Gesa would not hear of playing anything from his opera to the Tenor, but later, when he began to despair in secret over his work, an urgent desire to confide in some one overcame him. He played for hours to the Tenor after that, on a lamentable old piano, and wheezed the Arias at times, in a ghostly, hollow voice, only for the sake of hearing from some one the a.s.surance, "cela sera superbe!"

Then he would talk himself into an unnatural excitement, his eyes would flash, and he would cry, flourishing his clenched fist in the air--"It has the grand manner, has it not?"

Once he had been so modest!

His means were almost exhausted. He sold his books, his watch. He always treated the Tenor patronizingly, like a dependant--and the Tenor indulged him as one whose mind was weak.

But once, as the two were sitting opposite each other before the fire in the singer's room, the latter said, pa.s.sing his fingers through his hair, "My dear friend, _ton genie ne te fera pas vivre!_"

Gesa stared gloomily at the speaker.

"Well, well," said the Tenor, hastening to pacify him, "I only mean that the mere inception of such a grand work must require a long time.

How would it be if you should occupy yourself a little hereabouts, meanwhile?"

Gesa sighed. "I could compose something small," said he. "Romances, for example."

"Unhappily that would amount to nothing unless you allied yourself with a singer or an actress, who would bring you into fashion. And then--even so it would be a dreadful pity to divert you from your chief end--to fritter you away. No, you ought to seek a place in an orchestra."

"Yes, at the opera," said Gesa, and thought of his stiff fingers with a shudder. However, as he would on no consideration have confessed this infirmity he added, with some embarra.s.sment. "Everything is so complicated there,--so many rehearsals,--one is busy till late at night."

"No!" replied the other, "you should not undertake such absorbing work as that. That would be treason to your muse. I was thinking of a comfortable place in an orchestra that makes no big flourishes and does not rehea.r.s.e a great deal."

"Well!" muttered Gesa.

"I made the acquaintance lately at the Hotel de Nancy, of a clown, a splendid fellow, who works in a circus on the Boulevard Rochechonart.

Not a first-cla.s.s circus, but a very respectable circus for all that. I told the clown about you. They just happen to need a first violin and"--

Gesa sprang hastily up and left the room. From that moment he never spoke to the Tenor again.

His la.s.situde and weakness increased with every day. The blood crept in his veins like cold lead--there was always a mist before his eyes, and in his ears a sound like the flapping of an exhausted b.u.t.terfly. The miserable nourishment which was all he could afford himself, did not suffice to keep him up any longer, he could not leave his room, then he took to his bed.

Because he was universally liked his fellow lodgers did him all the kindnesses they could, and even the hostess herself brought him food, made his bed, and borrowed newspapers for him. He thanked them all with the same timid smile, the same far-off look, and spent nearly the whole day in a sad, drowsy condition, falling from one light slumber into another.

But one afternoon it seemed to him as if a soft hand pa.s.sed tenderly over his forehead. He opened his eyes. Above him bent a handsome old face, decently framed in grey hair, and a voice that sounded from the far distance murmured "Gesa!" He roused himself. "Gesa!" she cried again. It was his mother!

Yes, his mother, whom he had not seen for nearly five and twenty years.

She had married the acrobat Fernando. The circus on the Boulevard Rochechonart belonged to them--they were prosperous. The light-minded woman was not so bad as one might have thought her. She had kept herself secretly informed about Gesa for a long time after leaving him, and convinced herself that he was well cared for and "among quality people," as she said, and this latter circ.u.mstance had deprived her of courage to approach him. But she had often rejoiced at the sight of him from a distance. Then, slowly he disappeared from her horizon. And now the Tenor, Monsieur Augusti, whose acquaintance she had lately made, after talking a great deal of his friend, had only yesterday spoken his name. All this Margaretha imparted to her son, weeping the while, straightening his miserable pillow and smoothed the bed clothes. He suffered it all quietly, murmuring sometimes a grateful word, and observing her, half stupefied, half astray. He could not realize this sudden meeting.

But when she, embarra.s.sed by his pa.s.siveness, went on--"I heard you play, years ago,--long years ago,--at Nice. Oh! I was proud of you! And I bought your piece, the one where your picture is on the cover:--such a handsome picture!"--then the violinist buried his face in the pillow and groaned like a dying man. His anguish overcame the shyness which held his mother back--"Poor boy!" she whispered, caressingly, stroking the rough grey hair of the broken man, as in times long past she had smoothed the child's soft locks.

"You must not take your trouble so to heart. I know all, what a great genius you are, and how cruelly the world has used you. We will nurse you well again, and then all will be right. You shall come to us; we will not disturb you; not one of us; only take care of you. You shall have a little room of your own where you can work as much as you will."

He looked up slowly, a heavy cough shook his sunken breast. The mother pa.s.sed her arm under his thin shoulders and raised him up a little to ease his breath, his tired head rested on her bosom.

"How fallen away you are," she said, half weeping, "and your poor shirt, all in pieces. To-morrow I must bring you fresh linen. And now try to take something; you must get strong." And she gave him a cup of broth that she had warmed for him. He did as she bade him, silently,--he even relished the broth. His bitter grief, his deep degradation were forgotten in the feeling of being once more cared for.

Drowsy, quiet, lazy contentment overcame him. Dumb, but grateful, he kissed his mother's hand.

Her eyes lighted up. "I must go now," she said. "The ticket-office of the circus opens at six; I must be there. Good-bye. I shall get free about eight and can come to you then. Now you will sleep a little."

She pressed her lips to his temples and disappeared.

The violinist fell asleep. A memory glided into his soul, a long forgotten memory,--not of his dead bride, his faithless friend,--no, a painless memory of his first return to the Rue Ravestein.

A dreamy, narcotic odor hovered around him, and he saw a bunch of brilliant-hued poppies. He heard the light rustle of the dying leaves as they fell on the marble gueridon.--He sprang up. His heart beat as if it would burst his breast.--A nameless terror seized him, as of one who finds himself sinking contentedly into a bog.

He collected himself--he would flee--he would seek death. He seized his clothes,--but the garments slipped from his hands,--he reeled and sank back powerless on his bed. The resignation, the sleepy intoxication of ruined souls, who are grown too weary for despair, mastered him. A dark genius hovered for a moment in the bare attic, the genius of the hopeless. He carried a cl.u.s.ter of red poppies in his hand.

Days pa.s.sed, weeks, months. On the Boulevards Rochechonart and Clichy, peopled by artist workers of all kinds, one often meets a tall, elderly man with grey hair, that hangs disorderly about his cheeks.

It is Gesa von Zuylen.

His face is still handsome--but the expression is dull. Sometimes he stops, places his hand to his ear, as if listening to something at a distance. Then he shakes his head, sighs impatiently and goes his way.

He lives with his mother, and is treated by her and by his stepfather, and his half-brothers with much deference.

Carefully tended, neatly dressed, and well fed, he does not feel himself unhappy. He enjoys his meals and every one calls him, "Le Rate de Montmartre."

THE n.o.bL' ZWILK

The n.o.bl' Zwilk

It was in Vienna, in the Ring-Stra.s.se, at the house of Frau Von ---- I forget her name, but they used to call her "Madame Necker," because she was married to a banker, thought a great deal of her manners, had a weakness for celebrities, and two _jours fixes_ every week. Wednesday was for the _gens d'esprit_, and Friday was for the _gens betes_.

It was Wednesday evening, and the salon of "Madame Necker" was almost empty. Excepting her husband, who, to provide against possible misunderstandings, always showed himself there on the clever peoples'

day, there was no one present but a celebrated poet, a celebrated poetess, a celebrated orientalist, and a harmless little freethinking idealist, not at all celebrated but much in fashion.

The conversation turned on social prejudices, and the hostess, whose fad for the moment was for belles-lettres pure and simple, and who took no account of aristocracy, could not think of enough scornful words for a certain Frau von Sterzl, who was spending her life in the vain effort to balance a seven-pointed coronet, to which she had no right, on her worried head.

The orientalist looked thoughtful. He was a retired cavalry officer.

Some years before he had accompanied a friend to Cairo, and on the strength of that, had sent some articles about the Museum of Bulac to an ill.u.s.trated journal.

"Not to come of a good family," said he, "is no misfortune and yet, under certain circ.u.mstances, it can cause a social discomfort, which those who suffer from, deny, and for which not one of them is consoled."