“Sit down, sit down,” he said genially, “although I cannot give you very long. I am a very busy man; all the day and half the night I have to cut myself into pieces, as it were. And always, I am frightfully worried. To-day I have been more worried than usual.”
“I am sorry to hear it, Monsieur,” said the Italian, sympathetically. If he wanted to get anything out of Monsieur Degraux, he must fall in with his moods. Privately he thought the director’s worries, whatever their magnitude, were as nothing compared to his own.
This plump, prosperous-looking person was not very close to starvation.
“You know, of course, the name of Bauquel?” inquired Degraux abruptly.
“A great genius, Monsieur.” In spite of Papa Péron’s hostile verdict, the younger musician had a great reverence for the celebrated violinist, who was a popular favourite in every European capital.
The director snapped his fingers, and indulged in an angry exclamation. “Not the genius that he thinks himself, not the genius his friends pretend he is. He is very astute on the business side, has worked his Press well, and always maintains a vigilant claque. I and people like myself have helped him very considerably also by taking him at his face valuation. Genius, certainly not; at any rate, not a great genius.”
Monsieur Degraux snapped his fingers more contemptuously, and reeled off the names of a few rivals. “Those are geniuses if you like, artists who disclaim his clap-trap methods.”
Nello felt uncomfortable and apprehensive. The irate director was evidently so occupied with the subject of the offending Bauquel that Mr. Gay’s letter stood in danger of being forgotten. And the great man had especially said that his time was short.