‘I have had a fall,’ said Carl. ‘There is nothing to be alarmed at, but,’ holding out his left hand, ‘I have sprained my wrist and I cannot play.’
‘How did it happen?’ asked Christopher, following him into the bedroom, where Carl had already begun to twine a wet handkerchief round the injured wrist.
‘I was crossing the stage between the acts,’ said Carl; ‘a plank had been moved, and I set my foot in the hole and fell—voilà tout I want to ask you to play for me. There is not a man in the band who can do justice to “When Love has flown.” It will be no trouble to you. You will simply have to stand in the flies and play the air whilst a man on the stage appears to play it, sawing away with a soaped bow. Will you come?’
Christopher stood irresolute. ‘They can do without me in the orchestra,’ said Carl, ‘but I have been playing your song as it deserves to be played. Mademoiselle Hélène looks forward to its being played so. It gives her aid, I know. The people look to hear it well played, and if you do not go it will be given to Jones—to Jones, Gott in Himmel! who plays as a mason cuts stone. Do come. It will cost you no trouble.’
Christopher took up his violin-case, long since extracted from My Uncle’s maw, and followed Carl from the chambers into the street.
‘You play only the first movement, very low and soft,’ said Carl as they went along. ‘I will stand by you and tell you when to begin.’
They entered the theatre—a terra incognita to Christopher—and found their way through a chaos of disused dusty scenery. A great burst of applause sounded through the unseen house.
‘That is for Mademoiselle,’ said Carl, ‘We are just in time to get breath comfortably. Stay here. I will be with you directly.’
He left Christopher standing in the flies, looking on the stage. There were two or three people on the boards, but Christopher had not the key to their talk, and had little interest in them. By-and-by all but one left the stage. The light dwindled and faded. The sun-sets on the English stage are as rapid as in any tropic region. The player played his part. He was in love, and true as true could be, but the empress of his soul had her doubts about him. How could she doubt him? That was the burden of his speech as he sat at the table, and murmured the loved one’s cruelty with a broken voice and his whole function suiting with forms to his conceit. It was almost dark when the first rays of the silver moon fell athwart the chamber. Christopher felt that the dead silence of the house betokened the coming of the crisis in the play, and he was strung to the expectation of something out of the common. Watching from his own dark standing-place, he could see the actor draw towards him a violin case, and he silently drew forth his own instrument to be in readiness. Whilst he waited and watched, Carl’s stealthy footstep sounded behind him.
‘You will see her in a minute or two,’ whispered Carl. ‘I will touch you once, when you shall make ready, and once when you shall begin.’