And he played as one inspired. The violin, a legacy from his father, sang and sobbed and thrilled as it had never done before. When he had finished the applause was hearty and vehement. The hisses of the Bauquel claque could no longer be heard. The unknown young violinist had made good and won the plaudits of one of the most critical audiences in Europe.
Degraux met him in the wings and shook him warmly by the hand. “A thousand thanks. I see now I was right in engaging you, in speculating on a chance. Now, come to my room. You told me something yesterday about certain things in Dean Street. Cheques are no good to you. You want ready money.”
Nello admitted that it was so. Together they hastened into the director’s private room. Degraux went to a small safe, unlocked it and drew forth a roll of notes.
“See here, my young friend, you have saved the position. For the moment, that rascal Bauquel is temporarily eclipsed. Here is your fee, double what I promised.”
Nello protested faintly. “But, Monsieur, this is too much. And remember, please, I was very nearly a failure. Bauquel’s claque was almost too much for me.”
Degraux laughed light-heartedly. “Very nearly, but not quite. You say your good old Papa Péron calls him a charlatan. The expression is perhaps a little strong. He is not that, but he is perhaps not the genius he thinks himself, or his friends think him.”
“I should be more than delighted to possess his reputation, Monsieur,” interrupted the young Italian.
Degraux laid his hand lightly on Nello’s shoulder.
“I see, Corsini, you have a head upon your shoulders. Will you permit me to give you a few words of sound advice?”