“What is it, Doctor? You’re leaving something out.”
“Well, aside from the physical problem, there’s the emotional one. He’s had a great chunk of his life removed. Some people can’t handle that, Colin. Keep him as busy as you can.” The doctor was a burly man with a blunt face and sharp, gray eyes. “You’ve told me how much he’s helped you, and now it’s time for you to return the favor.”
“I’ll give him my life, Dr. Grigsby. You can depend on that.”
“One thing you might do is get him interested in your career.”
Colin shook his head. “He’s doesn’t seem to have much interest in music anymore.”
“You must see that he does. Make him compose. Make him help you. Somehow show him you want to go on and become a topflight tenor in the opera.”
“That seems selfish.”
“Not in the least. Furthest thing from it,” Grigsby protested. He raised one fist in a pugilistic gesture and said, “You’re going to have to fight for his life, Colin. Making you into a star isn’t selfish. He wants it anyway. He thinks so much of you. Now, fill up his life as best you can.”
“I’ll do that, and I’ll ask you to pray for us, Doctor.”
Grigsby nodded, and his face softened. “I’ll do that, my boy. You may be sure of it.”
“Good-bye, Dr. Grigsby.” Colin turned and climbed the gang-plank. The steward was waiting beside Armand’s chair, but Colin said, “I’ll take care of it, Ernest.”
“Thank you, sir,” the steward said, pocketing the coin that Colin gave him.
Turning to look at the teeming crowds on the wharf, Colin was silent for a moment, and then he remembered Dr. Grigsby’s admoni-tion. “Let’s find our rooms. I want you to help me with that new piece from La Traviata. I can’t get it.”
“I really don’t feel like it much, Colin.”
“None of that. I’m going to become a great star, and I can’t do it without your help.”
Armand looked up and smiled faintly. “You have ambition. I never noticed that before.”
“It’s going to take everything both of us have. I got a late start, but on the way home there’s not much scenery to look at, so I’ll entertain the passengers with my singing. They will probably want to throw me overboard.”
“I doubt that,” Armand said. He took a last look at New Orleans, and something crossed his face, an emotion that Colin caught at once. “All right, Colin. There’s nothing left to see here.”
Colin grasped the wheelchair and pushed it down along the walkway. His mind raced to make plans. I’ve got to keep him active and busy. He mustn’t have time to brood. He lifted his voice and began to sing “Amore Ti Vieta,” startling all of the passengers within hearing distance.
The booming sound of his powerful tenor voice filled the air, and one well-dressed and attractive woman turned to watch him with admiration. She leaned over and whispered to the woman with her, “What a handsome man and a beautiful voice! I wonder who he is.”
“Well, you can find out. We’ve got a long voyage.”
Unaware of this, Colin sang lustily, and when they reached the stateroom door, he saw that the marquis was smiling broadly. “You ought to charge them, Colin.”
“Maybe I can talk the captain into letting me give a concert. We can take up a collection afterward.” He saw that his actions had taken Armand’s mind off of his problem for the moment. In the cabin, he wheeled the chair around and said, “Now, let’s get to work. How does the phrasing go in that duet in the second act?”
Philippe Gerard stepped up silently behind his wife in the kitchen, put his arms around her, and lifted her off the floor. She was a large woman, but he handled her as easily as if she were a child.
“Stop that, Philippe!”
Philippe kissed the back of her neck and whispered, “I’m over-come with passion for you, my little dove. Come away with me.”
Josephine Gerard had been a spinster for many years. She had given up all ideas of love, but when Philippe Gerard had proposed to her and she had accepted, she discovered that he had the ability to make her feel like a young girl. “Put me down, you fool!” When he placed her on the floor and turned her around, he winked.
Josephine flushed but smiled. “Now you get out of my kitchen.”
The sound of Colin’s voice drifted down to them. “He sings all the time. How long have they been home—six months? And Colin sings every day,” Philippe noted.
“Yes, and he keeps the master busy too. I think it’s a good thing. You remember how sad he was when he came home.”
“Yes, what a tragic thing.” His dark eyes flashed. “I’d like to go to New Orleans and find that man who put the bullet in the marquis. I’d take him off at the neck!”
“And I would bless you if you did it.”
“When he first came home, he was so depressed, and Colin told me that we would have to keep him occupied all the time. That’s why I make him go look at the garden and help me make plans.”
“You’ve done wonderfully well, my husband.” Josephine patted his cheek and said, “The whole staff has made it the business of life to cheer up the master.”
“Colin said he was composing again. That’s good.”
“Yes, it is. Now, you get out of here. I’m taking their tea up.”
Philippe left the kitchen, and Josephine took the tray and walked down the hall. The marquis’ bedroom had originally been upstairs, but Colin had had a large room remodeled. He knocked out a wall so that the room itself was fifteen feet wide and twenty-five feet long. Colin decorated it tastefully and put new windows in so that sunlight flooded it. It was a cheerful room with thick carpet and a fine pianoforte positioned where the player could catch the sunlight on the music. Colin was sitting at the piano, and the marquis was seated where he could watch his face. As Josephine entered, he was saying, “No, no, no! You sound like a sick puppy!”
“I do not!” Colin protested. “I sang that last part exactly right.”
“You will argue with your teacher!”
Colin laughed. “You are right. I did sound awful.” He turned and said, “Oh, Josephine. Tea! Is there cake as well?”
Colin walked over and watched as Josephine poured the tea, then he pulled a chair up close to the tea table beside the marquis. “Thank you, Josephine.”
“I did make a few cakes. They’re not very good.”
Colin picked up a cake and bit a piece off. “It’s terrible. Leave them all. They’re so bad I’ll have to eat them to keep someone else from suffering.”
Josephine’s eyes sparkled and she grinned. “You always think of others, Monsieur.”
“Unselfish—that’s me.”
As Josephine left the room and the two men drank the tea and ate the cakes, they talked about the music. Colin had soaked up an immense amount of knowledge from the marquis during the past six months. He had studied Italian and German, and day after day he had sung until his throat, at times, grew raw, but Armand had thrown himself with passion into making him into the finest tenor in Europe—or in the world, for that matter.
“I need to speak to you about something, Colin.”
Colin groaned and put his hands on his head. “Every time you say that, it means you’ve found something I am doing wrong.”
“That’s not at all true, but in this case it is. You are doing some-thing wrong.”
Colin straightened up. “Well, what is it?” he said wearily. “I don’t think I’ll ever become the singer you want me to be.”
“It’s not your singing,” Armand said. “It’s something else.”
“What is it, sir? Tell me.”
“I’ve noticed that you have a bitterness concerning the man who put this bullet in my back.”
“Why, I’ve never mentioned him!”
“I know you haven’t directly, but it shows, and besides, you talked to Philippe about it, and Philippe told Etienne. Both of them, of course, agree with you, but I want to tell you that hatred and bi
tter-ness are more dangerous than a pistol or a sword.”
Colin could not meet the marquis’ eyes; he had spoken the exact truth. For months now, he had not gone to bed a single night with-out thinking of Claude Vernay. He had begun to indulge in violent thoughts about how he would make the man suffer and daydreamed scenarios in which he put Vernay into terrible tortures.
“I can’t help it, Armand. I just can’t.”
“If I’ve forgiven the man, surely you should. I think the Bible says somewhere that it’s wrong to take up the offenses of another. I’ll have to look it up. Don’t remember the exact place, but it’s true enough.”
Colin was silent. The marquis had done so much for him, and the idea of Claude Vernay’s taking from him a precious part of his life was hateful. Finally he lifted his head and said, “I’ll do my best to put the thing out of my mind.”
Armand reached out and grasped Colin’s arm. His grip was strong, for Colin had insisted on his doing all the physical exercises he could. “I have something else to tell you.”
“What have I done now?”
“Nothing, really. You will like this, I hope.” He hesitated and then said, “I have decided to adopt you as my son. Legally, I mean. If you agree.”
Colin stared at him. “Why, sir, I’ve never asked for such a thing.”
“I know you haven’t, but I want to do it. I have no other kin, and I want you to have all that is mine when I die.”
“Don’t speak of that.”
“It comes to all of us, Colin. One day you will be the marquis. It would give me pleasure to think of it. You’ll have sons, and the name will go on. Besides . . .” His voice grew quiet. “I have thought of you as a son for some time, and I know Jeanne would have been very happy at such a thing.”
Colin’s eyes were dim with tears. He cleared his throat and said, “It is an honor that I do not deserve.”
“We will speak no more of it. The papers are being drawn up. They will be ready later in the week. Until then we will continue our work.”
Chapter six
“I wish you would talk to the master, Mr. Colin. He’s really not well enough to go to your opening.”
Colin had entered the front door and started down the hallway into the marquis’ bedroom when Josephine stopped him and made her plea. He halted and turned to face her, his brow furrowed with worry. “I’ve tried my best to get him not to go, but you know how stubborn he can be.”
“I’m worried about him, sir. What did the doctor say?”
“He told him flatly that he would be risking his life to go to Paris, but he won’t listen. He says he’s worked too hard for this to miss it.”
Indeed, Armand had worked very hard for nearly two years since his return from New Orleans. It had been a good thing for him to stay busy, and he had done well for eighteen months. But then something had happened to his heart. Colin had entered his room to find him gasping and holding onto his chest in pain, his left arm numb and use-less. The doctors pronounced him the victim of a stroke. Some of the effects had passed away, but the marquis had lost part of the use of his left hand. His speech and memory were affected.
Nevertheless, Armand had asked Arnaud Heuse, the owner of the Paris Opera House, to put on a production of The Marriage of Figaro, by Mozart, starring Colin. It had not been hard to convince Heuse, for Colin had progressed tremendously, his talent becoming obvious to everyone who heard him. He had sung second tenor in several operas under Heuse, and Armand had set March 2, 1837, as the begin-ning of Colin’s new life as a starring operatic tenor.
Colin bit his lip and shook his head. “I’m worried. I wish he’d stay home, but he won’t.”
“Be as careful with him as you can, but then I know you will. You care so much for him.”
“We all do, Josephine. It’ll be a slow, careful trip. Where’s Philippe? I want him to help me get the marquis into the carriage.”
Armand de Cuvier sat in his box. Philippe, dressed in a decent black suit, had been pressed into service to get him up the stairs. The big man had simply picked up the wheelchair containing Armand and bore the burden as lightly as if it were nothing. He sat behind the marquis, who was speaking with Arnaud Heuse, the owner of the opera house. Philippe watched carefully as Colin sang the song that closed the opera. He had difficulty associating the man on the stage, so tall, strong, and handsome and full of life, his voice filling the tremendous opera house, with the skinny ragamuffin who had come up to the door in rags five years earlier. He was filled with pride, and once he leaned forward and said, “Our protégé is doing fine, my lord.”
“Yes, he is, Philippe,” Armand whispered back.
“Still, you spoiled a fine gardener.”
Armand could not but help smile. He was thin now and spoke little, for it embarrassed him that he sometimes stuttered and could not find the proper words.
He relished the opera, drinking it all in. As the curtain fell and the cast members began to take their bows, Heuse leaned forward and said, “You have written many fine works, Maestro, but your finest work is down there on that stage.”
“Thank—thank you for those kind words, Arnaud. I believe you are right.”
The marquis enjoyed the sound of the crowd calling out Colin’s name, the young man who had come to fill his life. He was pleased to see that his adopted son still had humility. He had undertaken to drill into Colin that pride was a deadly sin. Many times he had said, “God gave you the voice. It’s none of your doing. You simply must use it for His glory.” The marquis knew that Colin had been struggling with his faith since Jeanne had died.
Finally the curtain closed for the final time, and Philippe asked, “Shall I take you backstage?”
“I would like that.”
Arnaud said, “It’s so crowded. It will be hard for you.”
“This is his opening night. I must be there.”
At once Philippe wheeled the marquis to the stairs. He picked the chair up again and made his way down the stairs, calling out, “Make way there for the maestro!” in a booming voice. The crowd parted as the waters had parted for Moses, and Philippe continued to call out until Armand asked, “Could you please not be so loud, Philippe? You’re making—” He could not get the rest of the sentence out, and Arnaud Heuse said, “Here. I’ll get the door.”
They went in without knocking and found that Colin’s dressing room was already full. They all stepped back, however, as Philippe wheeled the marquis in. Colin went to him at once and took the thin hand that Armand held out.
“It was magnificent,” Armand whispered.
“All your doing, sir! All yours!”
The crowd listened, and one beautiful young woman, famous and rich and very prominent in the Paris social life, stepped forward and said, “I must congratulate you, sir, on your pupil.” The diamonds on her neck, arms, and hands glittered, but only slightly less than her eyes, which were fixed on Colin. “I must insist that you come to my home for refreshments.”
“Ordinarily it would be a pleasure,” Colin said quickly, “but I must get the marquis home. It’s been a trying time.”
“Then you must come, sir, next Tuesday. I’ll be waiting for you.” She swept away, and as she did, Heuse leaned over and said, “Stay away from that woman. She’s a carnivore. She eats opera stars for breakfast.”
Colin laughed. “Thanks for the advice,” he said, planning to fol-low Arnaud’s recommendation. He turned back and said, “Come now. We’ve got to get you to the hotel and then back home tomorrow.”
“I will never forget this night.”
“And I will never forget the years, sir, that you have given to me.”
Colin’s debut marked the beginning of a professional triumph. All of Paris was speaking about the young American tenor. No one could understand how anyone not European could sing so well! Colin found it amusing, more than anything else, and he spent a great deal of time avoiding the women who flocked to him.
But opening night had marked a
decline in the health of the mar-quis. In the days that followed, he grew weaker, and by the time the month was out and Colin’s engagement was over, he was confined to his bed and growing weaker daily.
“I must tell you, Monsieur, that your benefactor is failing.”
Colin had caught the doctor leaving the house, and he said, “But you must be able to do something.”
Dr. Marteau answered sadly, “We doctors have no control over the final illness. It may come when a man is ninety or when a child is one, but when the good God decides that it is a man’s appointed time, there’s nothing we can do.”
“How long will he live?”
“At the rate he’s going, no more than a month. Possibly much less. I’m sorry. Stay very close to him, for you will lose him soon.”
The end came two months later, on a Monday evening at sunset. Colin was sitting beside Armand, looking out as the light faded in the west. The dying sun threw a crimson ray that tinged the clouds, and Colin watched as the sun seemed perceptibly to sink behind the hills to the west.
“Colin.”
Colin turned, and seeing something in the marquis’ face, he took the frail hand and said, “Yes, what is it, Father?”
“I—must ask you . . .” He had trouble continuing, and Colin leaned forward to catch the words. Gathering strength, the marquis said, “Many times I have asked you—to trust in Jesus Christ.” The silence seemed to fill the room, but the words echoed in Colin’s ears. He had once believed, but he had lost his faith after Jeanne died. He saw that life was leaving this man who had done so much for him, so he said quickly, “Yes, you have, my father, and I will put my faith in Jesus.”
“Will you do that right now, my son?”
Colin bowed his head. He felt the presence of God at that moment, and in a faltering, stumbling voice, he cried, “Oh, God, I have been a sinner all my life, and I am so sorry!” He began to weep, and for some time he could not utter a word. Finally he said meekly, “I ask you to save my soul, Father, in the name of Jesus! I believe He died for me! Forgive me, please, and make me Your child!”
The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle Page 59
