THE PIPES OF MONSIEUR BORDEAUX.

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 147, 23 June 1934, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE PIPES OF MONSIEUR BORDEAUX.

|<By Jonn Pain, Folkes Street, New Lynn • age 17.) The pipes of Monsieur Bordeaux—ah! the beauty of them! They .were not ordinary pipes at all--Everyone agreed on that. Whoever heard such fluting melodies, that played upon your very heart—such gay chansons. Then -too, mind you, there was the coloiu-, not ordinary colours <tt all. One could suspect that Monsieur had breathed a pious prayer that the sunset wotiki wrap a slender crimson, sheath around the lovely thing, so! They were all colours and all sizes, blue, yellow, mauve, silver and grey, and they all madia much music' All of which serves to explain that Bene Bordeaux was an ordinary man who made extraordinarily clever pipes. M'sieu had been a soldier. You could eee that in every movement, of his stern, grey eyes—eyes that surprised you. They were liable to shine with hidden laughter when yon least expected it. He was-quite young in years, was Rene, about Ho you would say, but lie had left his careless youth behind him, a perpetual altar flame of remembrance, burning upon the grave of Manon. He was thinking-of him now —you could never drive away such thoughts; they always came back in the night, when the little red devils of pain were dancing before his eves. Rene Bordeaux had given his two legs for France, and France still remembers. s He would never forget Manon Lescant, as he lay there with his face turned to the peaceful stars, the shells screaming about theui. Lescant with his fair young face spattered with blood. . . . "After the Armistice he drifted back to France—no. one liad any use for the useless burden he had become. He had no one to turn to. Friends? Yes, but they only remembered Rene of the gay laughter. Kviie of the handsome face. Prince of the Boulevards; not Bordeaux witlnhis stern, grey eyes and battle s-arrcd face. They would not recognise the old wheel chair or tho wooden crutches. Still, one must do something. When Rene and Manon had played together in lovely old Provence—when, as yet, they had not discovered the thorns amidst the roses of life —Rene had made pipes; crude things of bamboo and light wood. Manon was delighted. It pleased Rene now to think of that joy, hero in the scented dusk. He was glad that Manon had liked them. He had a small capital and clever fingers, though it was through dint of sheer perseverance that he at last managed to pry the opening wedge. There was a home for crippled children a few yards away, and he went there, !his heart beating wildly. . . . After a while they got "to know him and would ibe all eagerness to be the first one to catch a glimpse of his old wheel chair. One day someone became interested — a parent of one of the children. He spoke to liim. To-day Rene had his own small shop with its modest , sign and shining windows, full of gay, wooden toys. Things were brighter now . . . So much for M'sieu Rene.now, for the graceful pipes and the story of the red lacquer flute. ... I *«. » »

As long as there remained auy daylight Paul gazed out across the chimney tops. Not because he liked them. No. Anyway he didn't see just chimney tops. He was like the poet who saw stars ■while the other saw mud. His life was one long, fairy tale, a paradise of his own creation. When one saw his little crippled bodv they turned away m horror. "Poor child!" they cried, lie ■would be better dead." All of which ■was whispered discreetly out of his hearing, but, anyway, it would have had no effect upon him at all. It was all because of the red lacquer flute. He had not bceir so well that day and the tall, chimney tops ceased to become turrets and spires and the heat became insufferable. Somewhere lie could hear a babel of excited voices and languidly he raised himself a little. Iheie, at the other end of the ward, was a man he had never seen before. He had an open case before liim, full of the most beautiful toys—spotted cows with big melting eyes, cats—everything. Soon they ■were "all gone and only a red lacquer fluto remained. Suddenly Paul knew he wanted that flute more than anything on earth, but it was not for him. He lav quietly, but his hand was shaking pitifullv and lie could hardly restrain his eagerness. Would he come to him. Oh! he was pausing by Jules' bed now. Ho fell back on the pillows, hot tears spran" to his eyes. He did not hear the soft wheels 011 the polished floor; he only saw, after a long, long while, a kind scarred face, heard a soft voice in jis ear—and then—oh! joy—the stranger was placing something 011 his hed—a graceful pipe in a slender sheath of. crimson »silk. It was his at last the red lacquer flute..

In the days that followed he could think of nothing else. The soldier caine often 7}o\v. He taught Rfiul to it, am} how quickly the days fled. Rene

had never felt this kind of pleasure before. It reminded him a little of Matron and the soft, flushed rosea of their youth. He grew young again, lifI if his heart bore scars, well, though | could hide them easily, they were I never entirely forgotten. He hurried this afternoon, MVreu of the kind heart, as Lisetto often said, watching now the little boy smile around liis mouth. She ran to help him and he gave her a cheery smile and greeting as she trudged behind Ins chair. -.How well lie knew the place now, with its cool, green and white corridors and airy wards. He counted the doors as he went past —one, two, three— ah! here it was; now for his "bou ami." Of a certainty he would rejoice with hifflr! Now he had reached Jule's bed —now Frank's; he would be there soon. Paul would be glad; yes, Paul— He rounded a corner, and checked the cry that rose to his lips. The little white bed was empty, and as he gazed dumbly, Lisette, all contrition, came rushing in. Numb, lie motioned towards the corner. Lisetto. dropped a hasty curtsey. "He went home last night, M'sieu. He will be better there." lie gazed at her dully. "Ho did not ask for me, then, 'moil ami?" "No, M'sieu." Ah! yes, the jjood Lisetto. .She was very sorry, ves. "The young Monsieur, he was overjoyed. Doubtless he would remember later," she said apologetically. Rene said nothing—then "Go—" His heart gave a great leap. Was it? But 110 —ves, it was, of a certainty. There was something under the bed in a corner. Lisette had not done the room, then. It was lying there alone, all grey with*dust, a little slender pipe, graceful in its pathetic sheath of soft, faded silk—the red lacquer flute. He sat there a long while after that, the tittlo toy in his Tap. From afar came the chatter of voices and the pleasant odour of frying chops, and the yellow iMßim i;o t> above tin? tall chimney tops, '.'art had loved the moon. "God's lanNvu" he had called it. Paul, who hud been so like the dead dear Manon. .

Paris, 1920 (seven years after.) —The old hospital was demolished. In its place an austere building with an imposing sign- in correct gilt lettering on the door.! Cool trees bordered the wellkept walk. Where was the little worn, familiar track? Not far away a swinging sign announced that "M. Bordeaux, dealer in antiques," carried on a thriving business. •It was the fashion to visit Monsieur's shop when one "did" Paris, if only to see his flutes. Howdelicate the design —lovely old-world flowers on carved ivory and jade, old fans, rare laces. It was not known what had furnished M'sieu's start, but then, Mon Dieu, think how it prospered. You went in through a swinging door, past two enormous bronze jars sweet with whole branches of almond blossom, to tho inner room. An attendant stepped forward. Perhaps Monsieur would care to see this vase—ah! tho old fan—but yes, Monsieur could see it for himself. It had belonged to Marie Antoinette. Ah! yes, the cost —of a price preposterous for such a trifle —but Marie Antoinette's. A thousand thanks, an eloquent gesture —so!—a waving of tine, expressive hands —

In M. Bordeaux's study was a locked drawer —it was never opened. It might probably liave never been, but for one tiling. The attendant had never seen such a beautiful lady, all furs and jewels. By her side a blonde youth of some eighteen summers. Madame was emphatic. She had ordered a flute; it had been sold. She would see M. Bordeaux himself. "I will attend Madame. Henri, you may go." "Oh! Monsieur, my flute-—" and so on. Henri paused respectfully. "I have it here, Madame. It is quite safe." "Ah! so! my purse, Paul." Rene started. Yes, it was Paul, and he did not know him, M'sieu Rene." Paul smiled insipidly. "It is too, too dear —a silly thing—still . . It was not M. Bordeaux now. Just Rene. He unlocked the drawer. In his hand lip liekl a little toy flute. It was soft to his touch. He thought he cculd feel the warm pressure of fingers —little boy fingers. The little flute seemed to laugh at him: "Don't be silly, Rene; you cannot live on dreams and remember Manon." Yes, he remembered Manor!.

He put it back again. It was sucli a pretty toy. Manon had a sister. In the old days she had worshipped Rene. Perhaps—perhaps baby lips would yet touch the flute. His baby. Truly— life was good.