“Then,” said Louis Flaubert, rising, “I think that is all. Ah yes! I forgot the point, like Madame. Of course, there is your salary. Shall we begin with four hundred francs a month? I take it that is agreeable to you, is it not?”
Jean stammered that it was—he wanted to ask for an advance, but he had not the courage; and the fat little man did not give him time to acquire it. He shook hands with him violently, telling him to appear at nine o’clock next morning, and was out of the room and down the stairs before Jean had time to formulate a thought, far less express it. He followed the fat little whirlwind into the street at length with a dizzy head. The future was before him and the whole of Paris sang. It seemed to Jean that the sunset sky was grey and silver with a band of gold, and as if to-morrow Jean would find himself playing before kings—music that was made up of silver laughter, of gentle wisdom, and of the wistful mystery that guards the heart of a child!
It was some hours later, when the sunset had faded, and Jean had eaten a small and sober supper in a peculiarly dingy room which he took for himself in the Rue Lalo, that it occurred to him to reflect he was after all not going to be Torialli’s accompagnateur, but the private secretary of Torialli’s accompagnateur at a ridiculously small salary.
He took out Madame Torialli’s letter and read it again. There was certainly a slight mistake somewhere; the faint scent of violets crept out into the dingy little room. Jean closed his eyes and smiled. Madame Torialli had no head for business. But after all what did it matter? The scent of the violets seemed to have replaced the moment’s chill lucidity of doubt. The past was a phantom, the present was a bridge, and the future had all the invincible fragrance of a dream.
It was evening in Paris and the spring was in the air. Jean ran downstairs headlong to become a part of the laughter and movement of the streets.
He was glad when he remembered that he had not given Margot his new address. She had been out when he called to fetch his luggage and tell her of his change of plans. She would have asked for explanations, and there is a time when no man likes to explain.
CHAPTER XXI
MARGOT was extremely unreasonable about her change of masters; she said she did not like Monsieur Flaubert.
It was true he agreed to teach her for a sum almost nominal. He professed to take the deepest interest in her voice, and told her, as Jean had never done, that she sang with the purity of a lark and the passion of a nightingale. “I do not like him, he chills my spine,” she asserted to Jean after her first lesson; “and you—you do not like him either, Jean!”
This was more unreasonable of Margot still, for Jean had never admitted even to himself that he resented Torialli’s secretary, and he did not admit it now.