“I must explain myself,” said Jean, leaning forward with intense excitement, and stabbing the air with his forefinger. “I have said that I am a musician! More than that, I am the only kind of musician who can help you! When I came to Paris six months ago I met Cartier. You must have heard of him, his touch is famous in Paris—you’ll have to know him—there is a man who has a soul of gold! He gave me lessons for which he never charged me a penny, and then he sent me out to listen to all the best singers in Paris. He told me to study a method of teaching, and how to accompany the voice; he gave me introductions to several singers, and I have already accompanied Lucien le Page and Madame du Buissant. Enfin! I have fitted myself to train a voice. That is what you need, is it not? Very well then, I will give up my Bank and train yours!”
“Pardon, Monsieur, your Bank?” exclaimed Margot. “What Bank?”
“It is nothing,” said Jean, with great calmness. “It happens to be my profession at the moment, but I have been meaning to give it up for some time. Now it is done! You will trust your voice to me? You consider my plan good?”
Margot gasped. “But, Monsieur,” she said, “I am not rich! I am not a Bank! I would gladly let you train my voice if I could afford to pay you for it; but alas, it is just there that your plan breaks down.”
“Not at all,” said Jean impatiently. “If I make your voice a success that will bring me into notice. It is a bargain, it is purely business, I assure you. Money—what is money? There will be no difficulty about that—what I want is fame.”
“But, Monsieur, meanwhile you must live,” expostulated Margot.
Jean looked annoyed; for a moment he was not sure that Margot was really an artist.
“That will arrange itself,” he said indifferently; “the great thing is we are agreed upon my plan?”
Margot hesitated, then she suggested a compromise; if Jean really didn’t care about the money, and since nothing would induce her to take up his time and skill without some form of a return, would he care to occupy her mother’s free room in their little apartment which had just been vacated by a theological student? It was really very convenient, as they were so high up he could practise as much as he liked. He would of course take the room for nothing, and she would then feel free to accept his lessons.
Still Margot urged him very forcibly not to give up the Bank. She seemed to attach an absurd importance to what Jean felt to be an overrated institution. Jean was in the mood for renunciation, and it seemed to him a small thing to burn this particular boat; he was in the act of wishing he could burn a larger one when Margot exclaimed: