Slowly, one by one, the lights in the French Opera go out, until there is but a single glimmer of pale yellow flickering in the great dark space, a few moments ago all a-glitter with jewels and the radiance of womanhood and a-clash with music. Darkness now, and silence, and a great haunted hush over all, save for the distant cheery voice of a stage hand humming a bar of the opera.
The glimmer of gas makes a halo about the bowed white head of a little old man putting his violin carefully away in its case with aged, trembling, nervous fingers. Old M’sieu Fortier was the last one out every night.
Outside the air was murky, foggy. Gas and electricity were but faint splotches of light on the thick curtain of fog and mist. Around the opera was a mighty bustle of carriages and drivers and footmen, with a car gaining headway in the street now and then, a howling of names and numbers, the laughter and small talk of cloaked society stepping slowly to its carriages, and the more bourgeoisie vocalisation of the foot passengers who streamed along and hummed little bits of music. The fog’s denseness was confusing, too, and at one moment it seemed that the little narrow street would become inextricably choked and remain so until some mighty engine would blow the crowd into atoms. It had been a crowded night. From around Toulouse Street, where led the entrance to the troisiemes, from the grand stairway, from the entrance to the quatriemes, the human stream poured into the street, nearly all with a song on their lips.
M’sieu Fortier stood at the corner, blinking at the beautiful ladies in their carriages. He exchanged a hearty salutation with the saloon-keeper at the corner, then, tenderly carrying his violin case, he trudged down Bourbon Street, a little old, bent, withered figure, with shoulders shrugged up to keep warm, as though the faded brown overcoat were not thick enough.
Down on Bayou Road, not so far from Claiborne Street, was a house, little and old and queer, but quite large enough to hold M’sieu Fortier, a wrinkled dame, and a white cat. He was home but little, for on nearly every day there were rehearsals; then on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, and twice Sundays there were performances, so Ma’am Jeanne and the white cat kept house almost always alone. Then, when M’sieu Fortier was at home, why, it was practice, practice all the day, and smoke, snore, sleep at night. Altogether it was not very exhilarating.
M’sieu Fortier had played first violin in the orchestra ever since–well, no one remembered his not playing there. Sometimes there would come breaks in the seasons, and for a year the great building would be dark and silent. Then M’sieu Fortier would do jobs of playing here and there, one night for this ball, another night for that soiree dansante, and in the day, work at his trade,–that of a cigar-maker. But now for seven years there had been no break in the season, and the little old violinist was happy. There is nothing sweeter than a regular job and good music to play, music into which one can put some soul, some expression, and which one must study to understand. Dance music, of the frivolous, frothy kind deemed essential to soirees, is trivial, easy, uninteresting.
So M’sieu Fortier, Ma’am Jeanne, and the white cat lived a peaceful, uneventful existence out on Bayou Road. When the opera season was over in February, M’sieu went back to cigar-making, and the white cat purred none the less contentedly.
It had been a benefit to-night for the leading tenor, and he had chosen “Roland a Ronceveaux,” a favourite this season, for his farewell. And, mon Dieu, mused the little M’sieu, but how his voice had rung out bell-like, piercing above the chorus of the first act! Encore after encore was given, and the bravos of the troisiemes were enough to stir the most sluggish of pulses.
“Superbes Pyrenees Qui dressez dans le ciel, Vos cimes couronnees D’un hiver eternelle, Pour nous livrer passage Ouvrez vos larges flancs, Faites faire l’orage, Voici, venir les Francs!”
M’sieu quickened his pace down Bourbon Street as he sang the chorus to himself in a thin old voice, and then, before he could see in the thick fog, he had run into two young men.
“I–I–beg your pardon,–messieurs,” he stammered.
“Most certainly,” was the careless response; then the speaker, taking a second glance at the object of the rencontre, cried joyfully:
“Oh, M’sieu Fortier, is it you? Why, you are so happy, singing your love sonnet to your lady’s eyebrow, that you didn’t see a thing but the moon, did you? And who is the fair one who should clog your senses so?”
There was a deprecating shrug from the little man.
“Ma foi, but monsieur must know fo’ sho’, dat I am too old for love songs!”
“I know nothing save that I want that violin of yours. When is it to be mine, M’sieu Fortier?”
“Nevare, nevare!” exclaimed M’sieu, gripping on as tightly to the case as if he feared it might be wrenched from him. “Me a lovere, and to sell mon violon! Ah, so ver’ foolish!”
“Martel,” said the first speaker to his companion as they moved on up town, “I wish you knew that little Frenchman. He’s a unique specimen. He has the most exquisite violin I’ve seen in years; beautiful and mellow as a genuine Cremona, and he can make the music leap, sing, laugh, sob, skip, wail, anything you like from under his bow when he wishes. It’s something wonderful. We are good friends. Picked him up in my French-town rambles. I’ve been trying to buy that instrument since–“
“To throw it aside a week later?” lazily inquired Martel. “You are like the rest of these nineteenth-century vandals, you can see nothing picturesque that you do not wish to deface for a souvenir; you cannot even let simple happiness alone, but must needs destroy it in a vain attempt to make it your own or parade it as an advertisement.”
As for M’sieu Fortier, he went right on with his song and turned into Bayou Road, his shoulders still shrugged high as though he were cold, and into the quaint little house, where Ma’am Jeanne and the white cat, who always waited up for him at nights, were both nodding over the fire.
It was not long after this that the opera closed, and M’sieu went back to his old out-of-season job. But somehow he did not do as well this spring and summer as always. There is a certain amount of cunning and finesse required to roll a cigar just so, that M’sieu seemed to be losing, whether from age or deterioration it was hard to tell. Nevertheless, there was just about half as much money coming in as formerly, and the quaint little pucker between M’sieu’s eyebrows which served for a frown came oftener and stayed longer than ever before.
“Minesse,” he said one day to the white cat,–he told all his troubles to her; it was of no use to talk to Ma’am Jeanne, she was too deaf to understand,–“Minesse, we are gettin’ po’. You’ pere git h’old, an’ hees han’s dey go no mo’ rapidement, an’ dere be no mo’ soirees dese day. Minesse, eef la saison don’ hurry up, we shall eat ver’ lil’ meat.”
And Minesse curled her tail and purred.
Before the summer had fairly begun, strange rumours began to float about in musical circles. M. Mauge would no longer manage the opera, but it would be turned into the hands of Americans, a syndicate. Bah! These English-speaking people could do nothing unless there was a trust, a syndicate, a company immense and dishonest. It was going to be a guarantee business, with a strictly financial basis. But worse than all this, the new manager, who was now in France, would not only procure the artists, but a new orchestra, a new leader. M’sieu Fortier grew apprehensive at this, for he knew what the loss of his place would mean to him.
September and October came, and the papers were filled with accounts of the new artists from France and of the new orchestra leader too. He was described as a most talented, progressive, energetic young man. M’sieu Fortier’s heart sank at the word “progressive.” He was anything but that. The New Orleans Creole blood flowed too sluggishly in his old veins.
November came; the opera reopened. M’sieu Fortier was not re-engaged.
“Minesse,” he said with a catch in his voice that strongly resembled a sob, “Minesse, we mus’ go hongry sometime. Ah, mon pauvre violon! Ah, mon Dieu, dey put us h’out, an’ dey will not have us. Nev’ min’, we will sing anyhow.” And drawing his bow across the strings, he sang in his thin, quavering voice, “Salut demeure, chaste et pure.”
It is strange what a peculiar power of fascination former haunts have for the human mind. The criminal, after he has fled from justice, steals back and skulks about the scene of his crime; the employee thrown from work hangs about the place of his former industry; the schoolboy, truant or expelled, peeps in at the school-gate and taunts the good boys within. M’sieu Fortier was no exception. Night after night of the performances he climbed the stairs of the opera and sat, an attentive listener to the orchestra, with one ear inclined to the stage, and a quizzical expression on his wrinkled face. Then he would go home, and pat Minesse, and fondle the violin.
“Ah, Minesse, dose new player! Not one bit can dey play. Such tones, Minesse, such tones! All the time portemento, oh, so ver’ bad! Ah, mon chere violon, we can play.” And he would play and sing a romance, and smile tenderly to himself.
At first it used to be into the deuxiemes that M’sieu Fortier went, into the front seats. But soon they were too expensive, and after all, one could hear just as well in the fourth row as in the first. After a while even the rear row of the deuxiemes was too costly, and the little musician wended his way with the plebeians around on Toulouse Street, and climbed the long, tedious flight of stairs into the troisiemes. It makes no difference to be one row higher. It was more to the liking, after all. One felt more at home up here among the people. If one was thirsty, one could drink a glass of wine or beer being passed about by the libretto boys, and the music sounded just as well.
But it happened one night that M’sieu could not even afford to climb the Toulouse Street stairs. To be sure, there was yet another gallery, the quatriemes, where the peanut boys went for a dime, but M’sieu could not get down to that yet. So he stayed outside until all the beautiful women in their warm wraps, a bright-hued chattering throng, came down the grand staircase to their carriages.
It was on one of these nights that Courcey and Martel found him shivering at the corner.
“Hello, M’sieu Fortier,” cried Courcey, “are you ready to let me have that violin yet?”
“For shame!” interrupted Martel.
“Fifty dollars, you know,” continued Courcey, taking no heed of his friend’s interpolation.
M’sieu Fortier made a courtly bow. “Eef Monsieur will call at my ‘ouse on de morrow, he may have mon violon,” he said huskily; then turned abruptly on his heel, and went down Bourbon Street, his shoulders drawn high as though he were cold.
When Courcey and Martel entered the gate of the little house on Bayou Road the next day, there floated out to their ears a wordless song thrilling from the violin, a song that told more than speech or tears or gestures could have done of the utter sorrow and desolation of the little old man. They walked softly up the short red brick walk and tapped at the door. Within, M’sieu Fortier was caressing the violin, with silent tears streaming down his wrinkled gray face.
There was not much said on either side. Courcey came away with the instrument, leaving the money behind, while Martel grumbled at the essentially sordid, mercenary spirit of the world. M’sieu Fortier turned back into the room, after bowing his visitors out with old-time French courtliness, and turning to the sleepy white cat, said with a dry sob:
“Minesse, dere’s only me an’ you now.”
About six days later, Courcey’s morning dreams were disturbed by the announcement of a visitor. Hastily doing a toilet, he descended the stairs to find M’sieu Fortier nervously pacing the hall floor.
“I come fo’ bring back you’ money, yaas. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I only cry, and t’ink, and weesh fo’ mon violon; and Minesse, an’ de ol’ woman too, dey mope an’ look bad too, all for mon violon. I try fo’ to use dat money, but eet burn an’ sting lak blood money. I feel lak’ I done sol’ my child. I cannot go at l’opera no mo’, I t’ink of mon violon. I starve befo’ I live widout. My heart, he is broke, I die for mon violon.”
Courcey left the room and returned with the instrument.
“M’sieu Fortier,” he said, bowing low, as he handed the case to the little man, “take your violin; it was a whim with me, a passion with you. And as for the money, why, keep that too; it was worth a hundred dollars to have possessed such an instrument even for six days.”
