One evening he spoke of it to Achille Roussin, and when, by request, he had tried to give him an idea of it on the piano, he was amazed to see Roussin burst into enthusiasm, and declare that it must at all costs be produced at one of the theaters, and that he would see to it. He was even more amazed when, a few days later, he saw that Roussin was perfectly serious: and his amazement grew to stupefaction when he heard that Sylvain Kohn, Goujart, and Lucien Lévy-Coeur were taking it up. He had to admit that their personal animosity had yielded to their love of art: and he was much surprised. The only man who was not eager to see his work produced was himself. It was not suited to the theater: it was nonsense, and almost hurtful to stage it. But Roussin was so insistent, Sylvain Kohn so persuasive, and Goujart so positive, that Christophe yielded to the temptation. He was weak. He was so longing to hear his music!
It was quite easy for Roussin. Manager and artist rushed to please him. It happened that a newspaper was organizing a benefit matinee for some charity. It was arranged that the David should be produced. A good orchestra was got together. As for the singers, Roussin claimed that he had found the ideal representative of David.
The rehearsals were begun. The orchestra came through the first reading fairly well, although, as usual in France, there was not much discipline about it. Saul had a good, though rather tired, voice: and he knew his business. The David was a handsome, tall, plump, solid lady with a sentimental vulgar voice which she used heavily, with a melodramatic tremolo and all the café-concert tricks. Christophe scowled. As soon as she began to sing it was obvious that she could not be allowed to play the part. After the first pause in the rehearsal he went to the impresario, who had charge of the business side of the undertaking, and was present, with Sylvain Kohn, at the rehearsal. The impresario beamed and said:
“Well, are you satisfied?”
“Yes,” said Christophe. “I think it can be made all right. There’s only one thing that won’t do: the singer. She must be changed. Tell her as gently as you can: you’re used to it. … It will be quite easy for you to find me another.”
The impresario looked disgruntled: he looked at Christophe as though he could not believe that he was serious; and he said:
“But that’s impossible!”
“Why is it impossible?” asked Christophe.
The impresario looked cunningly at Sylvain Kohn, and replied:
“But she has so much talent!”
“Not a spark,” said Christophe.
“What! … She has a fine voice!”
“Not a bit of it.”
“And she is beautiful.”
“I don’t care a damn.”
“That won’t hurt the part,” said Sylvain Kohn, laughing.
“I want a David, a David who can sing: I don’t want Helen of Troy,” said Christophe.
The impresario rubbed his nose uneasily.
“It’s a pity, a great pity …” he said. “She is an excellent artist. … I give you my word for it! Perhaps she is not at her best today. You must give her another trial.”
“All right,” said Christophe. “But it is a waste of time.”
He went on with the rehearsal. It was worse than ever. He found it hard to go on to the end: it got on his nerves: his remarks to the singer, from cold and polite, became dry and cutting, in spite of the obvious pains she was taking to satisfy him, and the way she ogled him by way of winning his favor. The impresario prudently stopped the rehearsal just when it seemed to be hopeless. By way of softening the bad effect of Christophe’s remarks, he bustled up to the singer and paid her heavy compliments. Christophe, who was standing by, made no attempt to conceal his impatience, called the impresario, and said:
“There’s no room for argument. I won’t have the woman. It’s unpleasant, I know: but I did not choose her. Do what you can to arrange the matter.”
The impresario bowed frigidly, and said coldly:
“I can’t do anything. You must see M. Roussin.”
“What has it got to do with M. Roussin? I don’t want to bother him with this business,” said Christophe.
“That won’t bother him,” said Sylvain Kohn ironically.
And he pointed to Roussin, who had just come in.
Christophe went up to him. Roussin was in high good humor, and cried:
“What! Finished already? I was hoping to hear a bit of it. Well, maestro, what do you say? Are you satisfied?”
“It’s going quite well,” said Christophe. “I don’t know how to thank you. …”
“Not at all! Not at all!”
“There is only one thing wrong.”
“What is it? We’ll put it right. I am determined to satisfy you.”
“Well … the singer. Between ourselves she is detestable.”
The beaming smile on Roussin’s face froze suddenly. He said, with some asperity:
“You surprise me, my dear fellow.”
“She is useless, absolutely useless,” Christophe went on. “She has no voice, no taste, no knowledge of her work, no talent. You’re lucky not to have heard her! …”
Roussin grew more and more acid. He cut Christophe short, and said cuttingly:
“I know Mlle. de Sainte-Ygraine. She is a very talented artiste. I have the greatest admiration for her. Every man of taste in Paris shares my opinion.”
And he turned his back on Christophe, who saw him offer his arm to the actress and go out with her. He was dumbfounded, and Sylvain Kohn, who had watched the scene delightedly, took his arm and laughed, and said as they went down the stairs of the theater:—
“Didn’t you know that she was his mistress?”
Christophe understood. So it was for her sake and not for his own that his piece was to be produced! That explained Roussin’s enthusiasm, the money he had laid out, and the eagerness of his sycophants. He listened
