Nello told him of the note addressed to himself, of the letter directed to the Baron Salmoros, whom Péron apparently claimed as an old and attached friend.
Degraux elevated his eyebrows at the mention of that world-known name.
“Salmoros! One of the greatest of European financiers. He knows the secrets of pretty well every Cabinet,” he remarked, when the young man had finished his narrative. “Your old Papa Péron must, at some time, have been a person of more than ordinary distinction. You have no knowledge of the contents of that sealed letter?”
“None, Monsieur. I can only guess that I have been recommended to the Baron’s protection.”
“Of course,” said Degraux. “It is a pity this very kind old man was not a little bit more communicative before his death, or in his last letter to you.”
“I think he was a little fond of mystery, Monsieur.”
“Evidently,” said Degraux drily. “Possibly, when you knew him – you told me the acquaintance was very brief – he had begun to go a little off his head. Well, let us see how the matter stands. On the one side, satisfaction with your present lot, with all the possibilities opening out to you. On the other hand, the presentation of this letter, with the chance of the Baron’s patronage. If we could only have a peep into that letter we should know better where we were.”
“But that is impossible, Monsieur. We can only guess that the kind old Papa has recommended me in the warmest terms.”
“Yes, we may assume that. Then, I think, my young friend, there is only one obvious course. You take that letter to the Baron. When he has read it, he will either put you off with smooth promises, or propose a certain line of action out of deference to his old friend’s request. If he should put before you any proposition that does not recommend itself to you, you can easily decline and stick to your present career.”
The advice was sound and sensible. By presenting the letter to the eminent financier there was nothing to lose. On the other hand, there might be something to gain.
“Unfortunately, Monsieur, I do not know the Baron personally. I understand he is a very busy man, and access to him a very difficult matter.”
“That is so,” admitted Degraux. “I know him just a little. I dare say you have heard that he is a great lover of music, and we have exchanged a few words now and then. But I fear my acquaintance with him would hardly excuse a formal note of introduction. But stay, you know the Princess Zouroff and Lady Glendover, at whose house you played lately. He is a friend of both. Either of these will give you what you want. If not, come and see me again and I will think of somebody I know fairly well, who will do it as a favour to me.”
“Both these ladies occurred to me,” said Nello. “The Princess is kindness itself; I am sure she would do it at once. But, in case of failure, I will fall back upon you.”
With many thanks for his good advice, Nello took leave of the warm-hearted director. Yes, Degraux was quite right. He would present that letter as soon as possible. He would write to the Princess Zouroff to-morrow.
But fate willed it that the Princess’s good offices were not required. He was playing that night at the house of a certain Mrs. Raby, who lived in Kensington Gore.
Mrs. Raby was a widow of about fifty years of age, of good family and considerable fortune of her own. When a romantic girl of twenty-two she had eloped with a man some twenty years her senior, who happened to be one of the greatest, if not absolutely the greatest, pianists of his day. For a long time her parents and friends held aloof from her. Artists were all very well in their way, but Constance Raby, with her money and good looks – she was an heiress through her godmother – ought to have made a brilliant match.
But Mrs. Raby loved her long-haired musician, the more perhaps for the fact that he was an Englishman, and never repented her choice. And in time, parents and friends condescended to bury the hatchet and came to her house, exchanging frigid courtesies with the artistic husband.
To their drawing-rooms flocked the élite of the musical world – great sopranos, great contraltos, nearly every artist of eminence. And in that charming house in Kensington Gore they gave for nothing what they demanded high fees for elsewhere, for was not the host one of their own world, and had they not adopted his charming wife as one of themselves?
Mr. Raby had died some ten years ago, but his widow still maintained the fame of those musical evenings. And to those who had still their way to make, an appearance in Mrs. Raby’s drawing-rooms conferred a cachet.
Mosenstein had secured an invitation for his young client. There was no fee. When Nello had demurred to this, not quite understanding the situation, the astute agent had silenced his objections at once.
“You do not understand, my young friend. England is a very funny place. A lot is done here for love. Mrs. Raby occupies a unique position. Supposing you were unknown, to play at one of her evenings would secure you a twenty-guinea engagement in South Kensington. Patti, Lucca, Nielson have sung there for friendship. Sarasate has played there for friendship. My friend, if you are wise, you will be glad that I have procured you an invitation.”
Nello made no further objection. Mosenstein knew the ropes as well as anybody. If he urged him to go to the house in Kensington Gore and play for nothing he had a wise motive. Mrs. Raby was evidently a power in the musical world.
The drawing-rooms were crowded, mostly with musical people. But there were a few others from another world; and amongst these, Nello presently discovered his patroness, Lady Glendover, who came here out of sheer love of music. The Countess had to pay five hundred or more for what Mrs. Raby got for nothing.
She greeted Nello kindly and invited him to sit beside her.
“Do you know many people here?” she asked, as she made way for him on the sofa.
“So far as I can see, nobody but yourself, Madame.”
“Oh, then, we will take compassion on each other and keep each other company – at least till you have to play. I suppose you are on the programme.”
“I believe so. My agent, Mosenstein, is arranging matters, and he will tell me when I am wanted.”
“Very well; until that moment arrives we can sit still and chat. I don’t know very many people either: just a few artists who have appeared at my house. The Princess Zouroff sometimes comes, but she is not here to-night. Some evenings, of course very late, it is as good as one of Paul Degraux’s concerts, when all the great stars have come on. About one o’clock in the morning they begin to warble and outplay each other. Of course you know Mrs. Raby married the greatest pianist of his day. They perform for her out of camaraderie.”
They talked for a little time, when the Countess suddenly exclaimed: “Ah, there is somebody from my own world, the Baron Salmoros. There is such, a crush, he does not see me. Do you know him?”
Nello’s breath came quickly. “No, Madame, but at the moment he is the one man in the world that I particularly want to know.”
Lady Glendover looked at him sharply, but she was too polite to inquire the cause of his sudden agitation.
“I will introduce you to him with pleasure; but it is no use running after him in this crowd, we shall never catch him. I know his methods, he comes here very often, he is a great amateur. He will exchange greetings with the many artists he knows, making a tour of the rooms, and then he will see me and come to a halt in front of us.”
Lady Glendover’s prognostication of the Baron’s movements was a correct one. After what seemed to Nello, watching his slow progress round the room, an interminable period, Salmoros stopped before them and bowed over the Countess’s outstretched hand.
“Delighted to see you, dear lady. I have just met Mosenstein, who always arranges the programme. There are not so many stars as usual to-night, but he promises us some very good music.”
While he was speaking the young Italian took stock of the great financier. A massive head, surmounted