“My poor children. Virtue is indeed its own reward.” He turned to Nello, and his eyes flashed fire. “And that charlatan, Bauquel, gets a hundred guineas for a single performance. And he is not in the same street with you.”
“But Bauquel is a genius, surely, Monsieur?” ventured Corsini deferentially. “I have never heard him play, certainly, but his reputation! Surely he did not get that for nothing?”
He spoke very cautiously, for although he had not known Papa Péron for very long, he had recognised that under that kindly and polite demeanour was a very peppery temperament. If he were crossed in argument, the old Frenchman might prove a very cantankerous person.
Péron snapped his fingers. “Bauquel, bah! A man of the Schools, a machine-made executant. He never half understands what he attempts to render.” Again he snapped his contemptuous fingers. “Bauquel, bah! A charlatan? It amazes me that the public runs after him. He has a powerful press, and he employs a big claque. Voilà! On the business side, I admit he is great; on the artistic side, not worth a moment’s consideration.”
“You understand music, Monsieur, you are a critic?” suggested the young man timidly. Papa Péron was evidently a very explosive person; it would not be polite or grateful to risk his anger.
For a little time the old man did not answer. When he spoke, it was in a dreamy tone.
“Once I was famous as Bauquel is to-day—with this difference: that I was an artist and he is a pretender, with not an ounce of artistry in him.”
“Was your instrument the violin, Monsieur?”
“Alas, no,” was the old man’s answer. “Chance led me to the piano. I think I did well. But I have always regretted that I did not take up the violin. It is the one instrument that can sing. The human voice alone rivals it.”
After a moment’s pause, he added abruptly, “Are you very tired?”