A WALTZ OF CHOPIN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume V, Issue 40, 4 October 1890, Page 6

A WALTZ OF CHOPIN.

( lig the Author of * Little Hand and Muckle Gold,’ ’Aid Diaboliis, Aid Nihil,’ etc., etc.) CHAPTER I. T has been my custom for many ■dly V* years to spend the season of Christmas out of England , and ll»rt»- thus avoid that epidemic of •’ compulsoiy joviality which at"L HW4£''ST tacks our rude island society Ida* C|sgj3si& at that time. As comineniorating the visit of the Day spring S —-.isjWfSX from on high by an excessive indulgence in the gross appe- .' tites of the flesh lias become i"Wi an honoured custom in our country, I in•z’R variably in the early part of December re- • tire to *' l,e I ' rencl * capital, ami there accord- ‘ ingly I found myself, not many yeais ago, on an evening in the week preceding the sacred day, alone, as was my wont on such occasions. So completely had I abandoned myself to the melancholy thoughts which twit > ! r were partly inspired by the solemn lessons of the season and partly occasioned by the host of sad memories which must inevitably fe?./ assail one who revisits alone scenes hallowed by the spirit of the days that are no more, that I had listened to the strange suggestion s’ of the sempiternal. Ernest (who doubtless read my familiar face as a book), ami so found myself dining quite alone in that celebrated chamber of the Cafe Anglais, known as le Grand Seize. Alone, said I '' Nay, not alone. The room was crowded with the phantoms of gay, graceful, witty revellers who had come back across the Stygian river, forgetting the terrible secrets that had been revealed to them, leaving the realms of desolation to troop in and keep me company once again in the capital of Pleasure,and drink one more glass of St. Marceauxa la saute des belles 1 There is Barucci, elegante as usual, and !<»<>kiri< r none the worse for her visit to the Plutonian shore, teasing le Due Darling, whose harsh voice vies with the guttural, husky tones of poor Citron in discordancy ; and Anna Deslion breaking in with ironical epigrams, learnt like a poll-parrot from Pion Pion : while Paul Demidoff, handsomer than ever to night, and nodding across the table to Narischkine, recites with sardonic glee Louis Bouilhet’s farewell to his sweetheart : l-'.t maintenant. adieu ! Sals ton cheminje passe: I ’oudre d im blanc discret les rougeurs de ton front; Le banquet est tini.—qiiandj’ai vide ma tasse. S il rcste encore du vin, les laquais le boiront 1 which brutal lines so distressed Leontine Massin as to melt her to tears. But the vision vanishes 1 Like the shade of Protesilaus these phantoms had departed, and I was alone in the < hand Seize with my cigar and the sparkling wood lire, while from without came upon my ears the ceaseless clamour of boulecard life, the same yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow ; the noise of the revolving wheels of the great Mill of Pleasure into which is cast youth, beauty, rank, wit, riches, honour, purity and hope, and which returns to us in lieu of these ashes and worse than ashes 1 But it was getting late : my ghosts had been such good company that I had forgotten to take count of time ami it was eleven ; so, deciding to take a bath of fresh air and a glimpse of humanity after my long draught of dreams, I rang and departed, wondering as I passed the lodge whether the Great Reaper in some idle moment had perchance thought it worth his while to gather even Isabelle into his sheaf. It was a grand night, frosty and very cold, but the moon was up and flooding the gay crowded streets with silvery beams. The shops were all ablaze with lightseven at that late hour,for the Christmas and New Year’s presents were on exhibition. Being fond of children, I am of course fond of toys, and so my steps naturally, and almost without my knowing it, led me to the famous toy-shop in the Passage douffroy, a shop which may be easily recognised from afar by reason of the immense indiarubber elephant which swings clumsily over its portal. Skirting the crowd I paused for a moment before the window, deciding within myself that the few purchases I had intended making could probably be madewith less discomfort early the following morning, and was about to stroll on when my attention was suddenly arrested by the sight of a youth, child or man (1 could not at first exactly tell which he was), who came running up by my side and then, after having paused and raised himself up on tip toe, for he was very short, in order to catch a glimpse of the toys, which thesurging mob prevented him from seeing, began pushing his way With feverish impetuosity to reach the window. What impulse prompted me to stop I cannot say. I hate a crowd, and here was a very large and very un’fragrant, albeit good-natured, concourse of people ; I iletest and fear draughts, and now the wind came careering up the passage, asthma vaulting over bronchitis in wheezy joy and yet I stayed. I wanted to see the face belonging to’that strange, stunted figure, to learn why he had been so feverishly anxious to see these toys. Yet perhaps after all he was but a thief, and this struggling to get a front place at the show was but the result of a vulgar desire to relieve slime gaping citizen of his purse, .lust then the crowd opened violently and the mysterious little individual who had been occupying my thoughts emerged, greeted as he fought his way through the mob with many angry remarks not unadorned with imprecations. 1 could see his face plainly now, but whether it belonged to a child prematurely old through suffering, or to a young man, I could not say, but about the ugliness and the power of the face there could be no doubt ; it was that of an emaciated juvenile Danton, the leonine expression being very striking at that moment, for the countenance, deeply pitted with small-pox, was illuminated by a look of insolent joy and triumph. He fell up against me when he had at length fought his way out, and looked up, apparently about to apologise for crusliing my toot, but when his eyes met mine he said nothing, and giving vent to a deep sigh of

relief turned into the shop. The glance, however, which had met mine was so extraordinary, so full of what I can only describe as spiritual light, that I followed and stood in the doorway listening. ‘ I want that doll,’ I heard him say, in a tone of deep agitation, but the voice was strangely musical, in no wise resembling the husky whine of the Paris cogon, to which class he apparently belonged. The shopman stared at him. * Which doll ’’ he inquired, with a strongtinge of insolence in his manner ; for the very shabby, though not exactly ragged costume of the youth, and his pale, worn, ugly face, which would indeed have been hideous hut for the light and power shed from between the red, tired eyelids, evidently had not predisposed the vendor of toys in favour of his customer. ‘We have many dolls here.’ ‘ I want that one,’ exclaimed the shabby youth ; and turning, he pointed in an imperious fashion with his forefinger to a doll in the window, much in the same way as Danton would have denounced an enemy in the mountain and pointed him out for sacrifice. The shopman took out the doll rather reluctantly and laid it on the counter before his strange customer. The toy was certainly a beautiful one, representing a lady dressed in the height of fashion, the toilette being composed of silk, satin, velvet and lace, the golden curls crowned with a stylish bonnet and the tiny ears decorated with imitation gems. What in the world could such a shabby little dwarf want with such a dainty toy, I wondered ; the contrast between the smiling, richly-dressed puppet and its wan, halfstarved, poverty-stained purchaser being indeed very striking. ‘ Well,’ exclaimed the youth impatiently, as the man said nothing, ‘ what are you about ? I told you I’d take it, pack it up for me at once, I will take it with me now ; 1 am in a hurry. ’ The man hesitated. ‘ This doll is not a cheap one,’ he began, ‘ and—’ ‘ Pack it up for me, I tell you ; do you suppose I’ni not going to pay you ? I know tiie price ; I asked it a month ago—it’s a hundred francs,’ exclaimed the shabby little Danton haughtily. Then the man began carefully, but with very evident reluctance, to pack the doll, enveloping it in many sheets of soft paper. When it had been carefully deposited, surrounded by cotton wool, in a neat card-board box, and the whole tied with smart ribbon, the parcel was banded over to the careworn, haggard youth, who put it eageily under his arm and then began fumbling in his pocket ; but even as he did so, his sallow face turned to an ashen pallor, and an expression of anxious agony came into it which was heartrending to behold.

‘ I have been robbed !’ he gasped still keeping the precious box tightly clasped under his arm, and still fumbling with wild despair in his pocket. ‘ I have been robbed ! I had six louis when I left home, and I had them when I turned into the passage, for I stopped on the boulevard and counted them, and now—now they are gone !’ The shopman’s face broke into a sardonic grin. ‘ Oh, robbed of course ! Je connais celle la ! Why you never had six louis in your life, petit vaurien ! What do you mean by coming in here and taking up my time for nothing ? Do you hear me? What do you mean? Robbed, indeed 1 You look like it, to be sure 1 Why you’re nothing better than a thief yourself ! Come, give me back that parcel at once, or I’ll call a sergent de ville and have you marched off to the lock-up ;’ and coming from behind the counter, the fellow approached the lad in a threatening manner. The poor boy put down the parcel, and though his eyes were wet with tears, he stared the enraged shopman rn the face defiantly. At this juncture I stepped into the shop. ‘Take care,’ I said to the shopman. ‘You have no right to touch this gentleman. He has given you back your parcel, so you have nothing to complain of. He lias been robbed—that is clear. Heie is your money, I will take the doll,’ and-putting down six louis on the counter I took up the box. ‘ But, Monsieur—’ stammered the man. ‘ Assezl’ I said. ‘ You have got your money now and the toy is mine. ’ Then, turning to the lad, I said in my most gentle and courteous manner, ‘ Will you come out with me, Monsieur? I should like to talk with you, if you would allow me.’ The poor lad did not answer, but, staring at me as one in a dream, followed me in silence out into the passage. When we had gone a few yards from the shopdoor I stopped short, and turning to him said, ‘ Forgive me, Monsieur, for thus interfering in your private matters, but I happened to be standing by and heard and saw all. You have evidently been robbed, and the shopman insulted you most grossly. This strange pale-faced gnome, who might have been any age from fourteen to forty, looked at me fixedly, his luminous eyes seeming lost in wonder. ‘Yes, I have been robbed,’ he said simply and very slowly, each word sounding like a sob. ‘ You seemed very anxious to have this doll,’ I continued very gently my whole heart going out in sympathy to this poor waif. ‘ Yes, Monsieur, very anxious. I had saved up my money for a month to buy it. ’ I hesitated for a moment and then said: ‘ I hope, Monsieur-, you will forgive me and not think me rude if I ask you why. It was not for yourself, I suppose ?’ The lad’s face flushed. ‘ Oh, no 1’ he exclaimed quickly. ‘lt was not for myself,—’ and then he stopped abruptly, a look of shyness suddenly softening his rugged countenance. ‘lt was for a friend, a friend who is dying.’ And the tears welled up to the poor tired eyelids. ‘ Forgive me,’ I exclaimed. ‘ I must beg of you to forgive me, Monsieur. I did not mean to cause you pain. I must be old enough to be your father, for you can hardly be more than—’ ‘ I am twenty,’ interrupted the lad. ‘ Twenty ! Then you’re only just beginning life.’ He shook his head, and then said with a forced smile, looking at me kindly in the face, ‘That depends, Monsieur : On no vieiUissait pas si vitc au temps jadis, Et I'on n’arrivait pas au jour avant I’aurore.’ What in the world had I stumbled over now, I wondered —a poet? Here was a lad almost in rags quoting Marc Monnier 1 But before I had had time to recover from my surprise the youth, who had been looking at me very earnestly, exclaimed in my mother tongue: ‘ Are you English, Monsieur?’ Here was another mystery, for the lad’s accent was perfect 1 ‘ Yes,’ I exclaimed, greatly astonished. ‘ And you ?’

‘ Yes,’ he replied, ‘I am an Englishman, although I was born in Paris ; my father was an Englishman. ’ ‘ Then we are fellow-countrymen,’ I exclaimed, ‘ and ought to be friends. Is your friend, your friend who is—who is so very ill, English too ?’ The lad’s face saddened again. ‘ No, —she is French.’ Then I paused for a moment. ‘ I wonder if I might ask you to do me a very great favour ?’ I said gently. ‘ 1 should have asked you in any case, but now that I know you are an Englishman like myself I feel sure you will not misunderstand me. I only bought this doll for you, so you must take it and give it to your friend.’ ‘ Bought the doll for me !’ he echoed. ‘ Why, you don't know me 1’ ‘ Perhaps I don’t, but I bought the doll for you, and you must take it. Yon and I are fellow-countrymen and in a foreign country, and I am old enough to be your father, so you must not refuse me, mon ami. Remember it is not for you but for your dying friend 1’ Then, as I said these words and thrust forward the box, a poor thin emaciated little hand was raised timidly and took it. ‘ Thank you, sir,’ he said simply. ‘ I will take it for my friend. You are very kind, but I will pay you in a month. I can save the money by that time and will send it to you then if you can wait so long. ’ ‘ Oh, yes, my dear boy. I can wait, and for more than a month, or two, or five, or twelve months. You must not trouble yourself about that.’ ‘ Then I will take it, sir,’ said this strange boy, ‘if you can wait, for my little friend is dying, and Death will not wait ! You must give me your name and address, please, and I will give you mine. Believe me, you shall have the money back in four weeks, if ’ and he hesitated, ‘ if I live.’ Then he fumbled in his pocket, took out a soiled envelope and gave it to me. ‘ I have an absurd name,’ he said, ‘ but that’s not my fault; Roselin Tudor, 298, Rue St. Marc. lam a copyist; most of the authors in Paris know me ; M. Dumas has been very kind to me.’ ‘ Thank you, Mr Tudor. Here is my card ; there is no address on it, but if you write to me to the Club, London, it will be sure to find me. In the meantime, I am staying here in Paris at the Hotel Westminster for ten days longer. I hope you will let me see something of you. I should like—’ and I hesitated. ‘ I should like you to let me be your friend.’ Once again the tears mounted to those strange luminous eyes and welled up to the poor tired eyelids that showed very evident tokens of work done by night. ‘ Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘You are very kind to me; but you are a gentleman, and I am only a copyist. ’ ‘ Never mind,’ I replied with affected gaiety. ‘ You are certainly my superior in one way, for- you work, whereas I, unfortunately, do nothing—except perhaps harm.’ He shook his head and smiled sadly, and then proceeded with great precision and gravity, but in a listless tone that seemed to indicate a terrible fatigue bordering on despair : ‘ As I have taken this doll you have been kind enough to offer me, and as I am forced to keep you so long waiting before I can repay you, I must tell you why I do it.’ ‘ No, you must not ; not if it pains you.’ ‘ Nothing pains me; nothing will ever pain me any more. This doll is for a little girl who is dying. She is only seven, but she is consumptive, and the doctors have given her up. She is living with me, and just before she was taken ill—more than a month ago now—she saw this doll. We were walking here together one morning and shesawit, and wanted it—not exactly as a plaything—’ here he paused, and then continued in a lower tone—‘ because it reminded her of her mother.’ Then, after another pause, he added, ‘ Her mother is dead. So I decided to save my money and buy it for her,’ he continued. ‘Of course I said nothing to her about it at first for I was not sure of saving so much money, but then she fell ill, and then — and then—the doctor gave her up, and then I managed to get some extra work to do, and saw’ that I was certain of being able to save the money, so I told her. I told her ten days ago that she might be happy at least once before she died ; and since then every morning and every evening we have counted up what was saved, and I have came here to make sure the doll was not yet sold. This evening I got the last five francs for a play I am copying for M. Sardou, and went home and told Marie and then came on here. You know’ the rest. She is waiting for me ; it would break her heart if I came back without the doll. That is why I take it. ’ Then came a pause. Of course I could not speak—who indeed could have spoken at such a momemt ?—but I took his hand in mine, and pressed it, and he understood me. ‘ Is this little girl related to you ?’ I said at last. He turned his head aside. ‘ No, she is not related to me; neither she nor I have any relations ; but—but—l knew her mother.’ ‘ And is there really no hope ? Has she had the best medical advice 1 Surely if she were sent to a warm climate she might recover.’ He shook his head. ‘ No, —there is no hope. She has had the best medical advice ; M. Gondinet sent Dr. Potain to see her. Her time has come and she must go 1’ These last words came almost as a wail. After a pause I resumed timidly. ‘ Did she inherit this consumption from her mother, do you think ?’ He turned on me quickly, almost fiercely, but on failing to recognise what he had evidently feared to read in my face, he dropped his eyes and shuddered. ‘ No,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘she did not inherit it. It is trouble that has brought it on, —her mother did not die of consumption.’ Then, after another long pause, I broke the silence. ‘ Well, I am more than glad to have met you, Mr Tudor, but I must not keep you any longer now. You must go back to her, for she will be waiting for you. Will you let me come and see you ? I can’t tell you how thankful I should be if you would only let me try to make your little friend happier while she lives.’ He stretched out his hand, which I grasped warmly. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured, greatly agitated ; ‘but you have done all already. She will want nothing now', and I want nothing. 1 can work.’ ‘ But you will let me come to see you ?’ I urged. He hesitated, and then said gravely, ‘ No, perhaps you had better not; we have only two rooms, and she is so very ill your visit might disturb her, but if you care to see me ’ and he paused. ‘ Well, I do care to see you ; tell me where and when I can.’

‘ Do you know a little ea/e near the corner of the Kne St. Marc,—nearly opposite the stage entrance of the Opera Conii<iue ?’ ‘ldo ; when can 1 meet yon there? Any time will suit me, late or early, but let it be to-morrow.’ ‘ To-morrow then, at four in the afternoon. Ami now good-bye till then. I shall not thank you, sir, again : you are giving the first joy she has known to a dying child, — how can I thank you for that ?’ And again we clasped hands. ‘Good-bye.’

• Good-bye, Tudor, till to-morrow. Good-bye, and God bless you !’ And then we parted, and I stood still in the passage watching the stunted, frail figure of the poor boy, as he eagerly threaded his way through the gay crowd of loungers and merry-makers, clasping his precious box in his arms and hurrying to the death bed of a child that haply he might be in time to bring her joy before the Great Consoler came. But I, now standing there alone, became conscious almost for the first time of the cold wind, and making my way out of the passage to the boulevard, I turned to the left, deciding that it would be far less uncomfortable, on the whole, to walk than to get into a draughty cab. What should I do, go to the club or go to bed ? It was too early for the latter, and moreover, my interview with this youth had so affected me that no thought of sleep was possible, so when my idle steps brought me to the Place de I’Opera, I turned into the Opera House and went up to the club-box. The opera was over, but the ballet, LaKorrufane, had butjust begun,andasl entered,the well-known graceful music reached my ears and the dainty Rosita Mauri came slowly from the back in the pas de la Sabotiere. The club-box was packed tight, and indeed the whole house was crowded ; but feeling no desire either to talk scandal with the men or pay my court to any of my many fair friends, I, after having given my tribute of admiration to the grace of Rosita, left the box and the house, intending to stroll up to the Cercle de I’Union and then go to bed. As I stood on the steps of the Opera House lighting a cigar, I felt a hand placed lightly upon my shoulder, and turning, I saw an old acquaintance of mine, the famous sawant and fashionable physician. Leopold Maryx, the great specalist for all disorders of the nervous system, and certainly one of the most curious products of our civilisation. Of his early years but little really was known, but the legend ran that he had at one time been immensely rich, owning agreat number of slaves and vast plantations in South Carolina, and that then, having hail a taste for medical science, he had attended to and experimented on his own slaves when a mere boy, in this way gaining a wide practical experience at an age when most youths are trying to stumble through Virgil at school. The War of Secession had, of course, ruined him, but as he was at that time still quite young, he determined to dedicate the remains of his fortune to completing his medical studies, and had for that purpose come to Europe and sat under most of the scientific celebrities of the day, labouring incessantly and sparing neither time nor money in his endeavours to realise the dreams of his ambition. He very soon became famous, astonishing with his audacious experiments the more sedate and prudent medicos of the old world ; and of course his sudden fame made him many enemies, ‘ Charlatan ’ and ‘ Quack ’ being the least unkind epithets levelled at his head by his envious colleagues. At length Maryx could stand it no longer, and challenging a very eminent physician who had insulted him, but who was old enough to be his father, he shot him through the heart. ‘That’s the first patient I have lost !’ he cynically remarked when his opponent fell before his fire. Then the scientific world of Europe set up a howl of execration, which Maryx quietly answered by restoring to health a Prime Minister anil a Hebrew financier, both of whom had been given up for lost by all the leading physicians of the day. There was no withstanding such arguments as these, so tl'ie fatal duel was forgotten and Maryx once more became the rage. He resided in Vienna—where indeed I had first met him—but he had a, pied a terrc in Paris, where many of his most influential and illustrious patients lived. He was an avowed atheist, a man of the loosest morals, a confirmed and desperate gambler, and a hardened cynic ; but as his visits almost invariably restored health to the ailing, and always afforded amusement to the idle, his society was courted by all who were really unwell and by all who imagined themselves to be so, that is to say in other words, by the vast majority of mankind. * What, Maryx !’ I exclaimed as I shook hands warmly with my illustrious friend. ‘ You in Paris at Christmas time !’

‘I am only here for forty-eight hours. I came on to see the Princesse de Birac and return to Vienna to morrow night. I haven’t seen you for months ! Have you anything special to do to-night ? Any engagement ?’ ‘ No. Why ?’ ‘ Would you like to see a man guillotined ? Because, if you would, you had better come with me. It’s a bore going alone, and I don’t want a man with me who is likely to make a fool of himself.’ ‘ I shall certainly not do that. When is it?’ ‘ To-night, or rather to-morrow morning. I have cards from the Prefecture.’ ‘Who is it?’ ‘Corsi.’ ‘ The man who killed that woman in the Rne Louis le Grand ?’ Maryx nodded. ‘ I remember seeing that poor woman play in the Trois Margots at the Bouffes two or three years ago. ’ ‘ She was pretty, was she not ?’ asked Maryx. ‘ Yes, very.’ ‘ Tantpis! there are not many!’ exclaimed this extraordinary man. ‘ Well, will you come ?’ ‘ Is it very horrible ?’ ‘ Certainly not; not at all. This will be the seventh I have seen. The worst part is the waiting—the triek itself is done in a minute,’ and the great physician made a gesture with his hand to indicate swiftness. ‘Well, I’ll go, doctor, of course for the pleasure and honour of your society.’ Maryx nodded and smiled. ‘ What time does it take place ?’ • About five.’ * Five ! Diable ! And what are you going to do till then, Maryx ?’ ‘ Try my luck there,’ he said, smiling and pointing to the Washington Club. ‘ And you ?’ ‘ I am going to the Union for a few minutes, for I want to see a man from our Embassy if I can, and then I shall go back to my hotel. Will you call for me ? I’m staying at the Westminster ; it’s on our way.’

‘ Very well then ; ‘ I’ll be with you at alxsut half-past three or four. It’s a devil of a distance, you know, to the Place ile la Roquette, so don’t keep me waiting.’ ‘ I sha’n’t keep you waiting. You will find me there waiting for you, probably’ asleep.’ ‘ Capital ! till half-past three then,’ and the great specialist picked his wav across the boulevard to the gambling rooms. I failed to find the man I was in search of at the Cerele de I’Union, and so within an hour of having parted with Leopold Maryx I found myself seated alone by my fire-side at the Westminster, having given orders to admit the doctor when he should eall in the early morning. As I lighted my cigar and seated myself by the blazing logs the thought occurred to me how odd an evening I had been spending, to be sure ! One thing I was determined to do, and that was to look after the welfare of this dying child and this strange lad. I knew I should meet with opposition from the latter, for I could see that his was a high-spirited and independent nature, but I told myself that I would let nothing daunt me, and that, no matterat whatexpenseof time or money, I would labour unceasingly to bring these two —the child and her selfsacrificing protector—to look upon me as a friend in whose power perchance it might lie to bring sunlight into their joyless lives. Having so decided I threw away my cigar, took up the Debate, and ere long bad fallen into a profound sleep from which 1 was awakened by the voice of the great doctor saying calmly, ‘Come; we must not be late ; it is time !’ (TO BE CONTINUED.)