The facility with which that sort of fraud had succeeded occasioned him regrets. Why had he not thought of that means earlier? It is true that he had not had any presentable domicile then, and that a room in a sleazy hotel would have given rise to the most violent suspicions.
He silenced the scruples that murmured in his conscience. Was he not coming to Mariette’s aid, and had he not once earned that money?
A thousand francs served to complete his furnishings and to provide his mistress with clothing and underwear. Mariette had never seen such a windfall. Her modest but elegant attire transfigured her; she never ceased looking at herself in the mirror, admiring herself ingenuously.
She tried with all her might to go out with him that evening. He had no difficulty proving to her that it was necessary not to show herself thus to her former friends, that bravado of that kind might excite their jealousy and covetousness needlessly, and that she would also expose herself to temptations that would separate them forever. That threat was sufficient to make her abandon the project, but she then demanded that he take her to the Café Concert de l’Étoile. She promised him that she would not say anything to the insolent Annette, who had looked down on her, but she wanted her to see her well-dressed.
That was a petty satisfaction of self-esteem of which he did not want to deprive her; in any case, he would not be sorry himself to destroy the poor impression that the people at the concert hall must have formed.
They went out, arm in arm, like two young lovers, to Père Antoine’ establishment. Mariette, in her new outfit, had comical alternatives of silent gravity and exuberant gaiety, which amused him greatly. In the spontaneous reflections that joy inspired in him, he perceived, marveling, that she thought soundly and had wit.
They went into the hall. The great Annette was in her usual place and the pianist, a very young man, incessantly turned toward her, without paying overmuch heed to the singers. The entrance of Monsieur Charles and Mariette disquieted the pretty maniac and caused her a violent surge of resentment. She was, so to speak, caught in the act; the only pianist who had not fallen victim to her affectations had been able to see with his own eyes the scant regard she had for the individual and her infatuation with the employment. The thing was all the more sensible because the skillful resistance of the graying musician had disconcerted her flighty heart; his fine manners and fluency has fascinated her, and she had found herself on the brink of falling for him.
The baritone Fernand, perceiving his former accompanist in his turn, made signs of intelligence to him, and, few moments later, went to confer with Père Antoine, whom he notified of his presence.
The impresario drink-merchant immediately approached the lovely Annette.
“When you’ve finished distracting my employees, my girl,” he exclaimed, in a fashion to make himself heard, “you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
The tall young woman, humiliated, rose to her feet furiously
“Oh, it’s like that is it?” she declared. “That’s all right, I’m going, and I’ll never set foot in this dirty dive again.”
“And you’ll give me pleasure,” Père Antoine approved. “You’re really too demanding, and you turn the establishment upside-down.”
“Come on then,” she shouted to the young man. “Can’t you see that you’re about to be sacked. It’s been fixed—the replacement’s already here.”
The young virtuoso, only subjugated the day before and hypnotized by the beautiful blonde, thought himself obliged to follow her. The director, who seemed to have been counting on that, hastened to approach Monsieur Charles. He was fed up with gigolos, he wanted a serious man like him; the artistes were right, one couldn’t change accompanists every month without disrupting the service. He therefore begged him to take his place again; if Annette took it into her head to come back, he would throw her out.
Delighted with the proposition, the musician sat down at the piano and the triumphant Mariette took possession of Annette’s chair.
Monsieur Charles was intrigued by the change of attitude on the part of the rapacious proprietor of the Étoile. The reasons he had given, although plausible, could not be the only ones. There had surely been a quarrel between them; the appellation “my girl,” which had replaced “my child” was characteristic; it was almost a term of scorn, which Père Antoine only applied to lower class clients. At the exit, the baritone Fernand gave him the key to the enigma.
Annette’s financial supporter, the wood merchant, had suddenly rendered his generous soul to God; the lovely woman, thus finding herself reduced to seeking her fortune anew, had had the unfortunate idea of wanting to exploit the gold mine lurking in her lungs, and not only had she not offered any money to prepare the room but had actually had the audacity to ask for a fee.
Confronted by that enormity, Père Antoine had almost fallen over; his nose, formed like an eagle’s beak, had turned up in a menacing fashion; his indignation had taken on epic proportions, and he had not yet calmed down. “My child,” denuded of all prestige, was no longer anything but an insupportable whore who debauched all his pianists and whom he would throw out at the first opportunity. The personnel had agreed, and the arrival of the former accompanist had precipitated events.
As for the irresistible baritone, he had not thought for an instant of avenging himself for the lack of success of his own advances; he could not care less about Annette; he could not satisfy all the women infatuated with him—but he was, all the same, not sorry to have rubbed it in.
While they walked back to the Rue Vavin, Mariette sang the songs she had just heard.
“You know,” her friend remarked, “you’re hitting the right notes—you have a musical memory; one might even think that you have a voice.”
“Yes, I have a voice,” Mariette affirmed. “I think told you I that have a voice. When I was young and better off, if you’d heard me sing in the studio, you’d have been amazed. Here, listen to whether I have a voice!”
She intoned a popular song.
The joyful Charles Balin had found the solution to the problem, for which he had been searching since the commencement of the liaison. He would make his friend a singer at the café concert! It was the best and only relatively honorable fashion that was in his power to pull her out of the gutter and give her a means of existence, in order to be able to leave her to her own devices when he had the courage to abandon her.
The troubling dream in which he was living could not, in fact, last long. Remorse was beginning to assail him with increasing frequency; outside of his work, Mariette absorbed all his hours, all his thoughts, and deflected him from his goal.
The night of amour that crowned the fortunate day quickly stifled the first protests of his conscience.
The following day, he made his mistress party to the project he had conceived. At the mere idea that she might one day enter the café concert, she began to jump for joy.
He bought an old upright piano that was not completely worn out, books of elementary instruction and scores, and commenced the education of the near-illiterate slum girl.
The newspaper that employed him had just failed; he had a thousand francs in hand. His job as an accompanist and a few piano and singing lessons permitted him to live without taking up all his time; he was able to devote himself seriously to the ingrate task he had imposed to himself.
The success was surprising; after a mere five months the little Parisienne, willing, courageous, intelligent and extraordinarily malleable in his hands, had attained unexpected results. She expressed herself almost correctly, no longer remembered, except in rare moments of anger, the dirty argot of old, and had relearned everything she had known on leaving elementary school. In music, her progress had been even more rapid; she had almost mastered the scale, she had learned to read music a little, and endowed with a good memory, possessed a veritable repertoire. Her natural qualities, her desire to achieve something, and the verve she put into the slightest actions, had facilitated the task singularly.
He had, in addition, taken advantage of certain affinities, her ardent and enthusiastic character and her accentuated traits to steer her in the most favorable direction. It was thus that she had learned the majority of the popular songs of Italy and Spain, and, whether by assimilation or atavism, Mariette launched an Olé like a veritable Castilian.
He judged that she would soon be ready to make her debut, and envisaged, not without sadness, the moment of separation. The months they had spent together would have been even happier if he had been able to free himself from his remorse.
He earned between eight a ten francs a day; Mariette cooked a simple meal; they set to work, and then went to the concert, before swiftly returning home.
The humble lodgings in which they lived were situated under the eaves of an old building. Two windows, drawn back from the roof, which formed a terrace above them inundated them with light and pure air. Without equaling the splendor of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the convolvulus, clematis, roses and wallflowers that Mariette grew in boxes already framed the windows and promised imminent flowers. Day by day, they followed the progress of their cherished plants, and Mariette, who measured their height, announced the growth with a charming pride. In the distance, the verdure of the Luxembourg ornamented the horizon of their regal landscape.
Their furniture bordered on indigence: a big iron-framed bed, two tables, a few chairs, the old upright piano, a bulbous eighteenth-century chest of drawers unearthed in a local second-hand dealer’s shop, a kitchen table, household utensils, a cast-iron stove, and a few pleasant prints on the wall formed the whole of it; but everything was neat and orderly, because Mariette applied herself to proving that she was no stranger to domestic chores.
It was there that a little happiness had come to console their poverty. Their communal life, it is true, had not always been exempt from storms. Mariette sometimes had disquieting reversions to a savage state.
Not that she had ever sought to deceive him; the advances that had inevitably been made to her by the habitués of the café concert had always been greeted with a singular coldness; but she sometimes suffered from sudden hungers for liberty, sudden revolts that troubled their union.
The slightest intemperance unleashed her impetuous character, when she vomited insults at the smallest irritation, regretted the time when no one could demand anything of her, cursed her slavery, declared that she had had enough of it, hastily packed her clothes and went out, slamming the door. She had had two or three fits of that sort, which had been very hard for him to bear.
But as she had quickly returned, ashamed, to the fold; as she had humbly begged his pardon and had returned, more courageously and submissively, to her study; as the pity he felt for her was infinite; and as he was determined to leave her some day, he had contented himself with making sensible reproaches, demonstrating to her the facility with which she could fall back into the mire if she allowed herself to be carried away by her indomitable nature—and it had all ended in tears and kisses.
Chapter XIX
It was in the month of June 18** that Mariette made her debut at the Café Concert de l’Étoile. Monsieur Charles, knowing the suspicion and avarice of the former coal merchant, had carefully refrained from making him the slightest proposition. Père Antoine gladly accepted amateurs in quest of a debut, but he obstinately refused, even if they had the voice of Faure or Patti, to grant them the slightest fee. His resolution in that regard was as unshakable as the granite of his natal region. For him, there were no veritable artistes except for those the agencies procured for him; all the others were Goguette singers.20 Pay them—get away! It was, on the contrary, him who had the might to demand money; apprenticeships were served in all métiers. The great Annette knew what the obstinate attempts she had once made every few months had cost her! As if he were going to amuse himself paying debutants! All his artistes and waiters would bring him their good friends! He wanted veritable chanteuses, the professional chanteuses that the agency sent him.
The pianist, informed, went directly to the agency, introduced Mariette, had her audition, and left with a formal assurance that at the first request, she would be sent to Père Antoine at a salary of five francs a night, the maximum fee that the parsimonious montagnard granted to ladies.
“Your protégée has a voice and talent,” he was told by the lyrical agent, an active young man on the lookout for artistes of the future, “her physiognomy has character, she has a good figure and her voice will carry in big halls; if her debut is favorable, which I don’t doubt, and she becomes habituated rapidly to the boards—that’s the main thing—we shan’t leave her dragging her heels in a low-class café concert.” Addressing the radiant and confused Mariette, he added: “And you won’t forget later, Mademoiselle, that the agency helped you to find a brilliant situation. In brief, when you’re offered serious engagements, come to find me: I’ll obtain you more advantageous conditions, and get a commission.”
A short time afterwards, Mariette received the summons so ardently desired. The day before, Père Antoine, alerted by a special letter from his supplier, which only happened in exceptional circumstances, announced to all his personnel an artiste of the first rank, from the top drawer, an Italian named Rose Gontran.
“What makes you think she’s Italian?” asked the surprised accompanist.
“Look, read it for yourself!”
Monsieur Charles could not help smiling. The agent advertised a chanteuse del primo cartetto, Mademoiselle Rose Gontran.
“Well, Monsieur Antoine,” he declared, “Mademoiselle Rose isn’t Italian.”
“Oh,” said the disappointed director.
“She’s Spanish,” aid the pianist, to console the impresario. “A Spaniard from Paris,” he added, laughing, “which is to say, Parisian, born of Spanish parents.”
“You know her, then?”
“I’ve accompanied her often.”
“Does she have the talent the agency says?”
“You’re a man of taste, you have experience and flair, you’ll judge her for yourself.”
“Certainly,” Père Antoine had replied, swelling up with pride, “but even so, what’s your opinion?”
“I don’t want to spoil your surprise. I’ll bring her to you myself, tomorrow.”
“You know her intimately, then? Admit it—your legitimate isn’t here.”
“Perhaps.”
The next day, the former coal merchant, at the sight of Mariette, who presented herself with the letter of convocation, started comically in surprise.
“Rose Gontran, the Spaniard, is you?”
“Yes, Monsieur Antoine.”
“Impossible! You name is Mariette.”
“Rose is my stage name.”
“You’re a professional singer, then?”
“Your agency wouldn’t have sent me otherwise.”
“You’ve been here every evening.”
“I was resting, on doctor’s orders.”
“Where have you sung, then?”
Mariette brazenly listen ten Parisian café concerts and twenty in the provinces. Père Antoine, too wily not to understand that his hand was being forced, scratched his head indecisively, but he left it there. There was hardly anyone in the place, and besides, she was an artiste that the agency had sent him, the sole consideration that could reckon with his mistrust.
Mariette, therefore, made her debut that same evening. The thing had been kept secret; her friend knew full well that if Annette had caught wind of it she would not have failed to organize a cabal; only the sympathetic clan of painters and rhymers had been alerted.
The result was all that could be hoped. The chanteuse had a few moments of weakness—no matter how small a stage is, one does not tread the boards for the first time without a dangerous emotion—but the help that the accompanist gave her, forgotten words whispered, tightness in the voice masked by energetic chords, and the powerful encouragement of friendly smiles, came to her aid at the critical mom
ents. The debutante, recalled several times like a star, obtained a dazzling success. Even Père Antoine shelled out the hundred-sou coin without complaint. Rose Gontran had conquered all votes.
Charles Balin had demanded that is mistress change her name. The registered prostitute who had emerged from prison had to erase all traces of her past, to the extent that it was possible.
At first, Mariette wanted a sonorous name with a Spanish termination, but he had persuaded her of the futility of pretentious pseudonyms of that sort. Nevertheless, as her real name was Marie-Rose Gantron and his weakness for anagrams was able to satisfy the debutante, she received the name with the Castilian termination of Rose Gontran.
The success of the chanteuse was accentuated in the following days; bands of students came to acclaim her. For the first time, Père Antoine had an artiste who brought in receipts. Then he learned that Annette had hired whistlers. He talked about calling the police. Monsieur Charles begged him not to do that, and presented himself unexpectedly at the home of his former admirer.
“Let’s put our cards on the table,” he said to her. “I know what you’re planning. If you have the audacity to carry it through, I’ll send a signed circular letter to all the agencies asking them to communicate it to the pianists; I’ll denounce your infatuation, of which some of them are already aware, and you’ll become the laughing-stock or the prey of all the key-tappers in the capital. Believe me, don’t waste your money satisfying imaginary grievances, the adventure will turn against you. Instead, make a friend of Rose, whose talent will open doors, and who might be useful to you later. Come this evening; I’ll introduce you to her.”
The beautiful Annette returned to the Concert de l’Étoile, and was the first to applaud her rival.
The Second Life of Doctor Albin Page 20
