“And what are they, these artists, except the very few who are in the front rank—creatures of an hour, of the public’s caprice? Joachim, Sarasate, those are names to conjure with; they are permanent. But the others come and go. I, one of the directors of the Italian Opera, remain while they disappear. The exploiters are permanent, the exploited are transitory.”
“What do you advise, Monsieur?” asked Nello timidly. This whirlwind of a man half fascinated, half repelled him.
Monsieur Degraux held out his hand with his frank, engaging smile.
“Be exploited as long as it suits your book. Then save money and exploit other people. I cannot stay any longer. I have given you a few hints. You must work them out for yourself.”
A new world was opening to Nello Corsini, the talented young violinist who, only a few weeks ago, had played in the street on the chance of the coppers flung by passers-by. But it was absurd! How could he ever be a Paul Degraux? And yet, Degraux had played twenty-five years ago in a small orchestra for a pittance. What was his income now? Something princely.
He longed to hasten back to Dean Street with that precious sheaf of notes. How the dear old Papa’s eyes would lighten up at the news of his success, when he told him the tale of how Bauquel’s claque had been silenced. And the dear little Anita too! Tears of joy would run down her cheeks.
Degraux, or Bauquel, after such a night of triumph, would have taken a cab. But such an idea was alien to Nello’s frugal temperament. It was only a few moments’ walk. He took his violin case in his hand and stepped along bravely.
As he emerged from the theatre a footman in handsome livery laid his hand upon his arm.
“Pardon me, Signor Corsini. The Princess Zouroff wishes to speak to you. Will you follow me, please? I will lead you to her carriage.”
He followed the tall footman. The Princess, a grey-haired woman of tall and commanding presence, leaned through the carriage window.