He even had a thread of a voice, only a very thin thread, but this he managed with such taste that cries of “Bravo!” “Amazing!” “Delightful!” came from all corners as soon as he had sung his last note.
He subscribed to a music library in Paris which supplied him with all the novelties and from time to time he sent out cards of invitation to the leaders of society in the town, which ran as follows:
“M. Saval, notary, requests the pleasure of your company at the first performance of Saïs in Vernon.”
The chorus consisted of some military officers with good voices and there were two or three ladies in the town who sang. The notary himself conducted with such mastery that the bandmaster of the 190th regiment of infantry remarked one day in the Café de l’Europe: “Ah! Monsieur Saval is a master; it is a pity he did not take up the arts as a profession.”
When his name was mentioned in a drawing room, someone was sure to say: “He is not an amateur, he is a real artiste,” and two or three others would repeat with conviction: “Oh, yes, he is a real artiste,” with an emphasis on the word “real.”
Whenever there was a first night at one of the big theatres in Paris, Monsieur Saval went up to town. Therefore a year ago, according to his usual habit, he wanted to go and hear Henry VIII, and took the express that arrives at Paris at half past four, having decided to return home by the twelve-thirty-five that night to avoid sleeping at the hotel. He had put on evening dress before starting, which he hid under his overcoat, and turned up the collar.
As soon as he set foot in the Rue d’Amsterdam his spirits rose and he said to himself: “The air of Paris is like no other air in the world. There is something exhilarating, exciting, intoxicating about it that makes a man want to dash about and do all sorts of things. As soon as I get out of the train I feel as if I had drunk a bottle of champagne. What a jolly life one could have in Paris among the artists, musicians and writers. Happy are the elect, the great men who enjoy fame in such a city. Theirs is really life!”
He made plans for the future; he wanted to meet some famous men so that he could talk about them at Vernon, and spend an occasional evening with them when he came to Paris. Suddenly an idea entered his head. He had heard about the little cafés of the outer Boulevards where well-known painters, literary men and even musicians met, and he began slowly to make his way towards Montmartre.
He had two hours to spare, and wanted to find things out for himself. He wandered past bars full of down-and-out Bohemians, scrutinising them closely, trying to pick out the artistes, until at last he entered the Rat Mort, attracted by the name.
Five or six women sat with their elbows on the marble tables, talking in low voices about their love affairs, Lucie’s quarrels with Hortense, and the caddish behaviour of Octave. They were not young, were either too fat or too thin, and looked tired and worn; you felt that their hair was very thin; and they drank their beer like men.
Monsieur Saval seated himself at some distance from them and waited, as it was nearly time for his absinth. Presently a tall young man came in and sat down beside him, whom the patronne called Monsieur Romantin. The notary gave a start; could it be the Romantin who had received a First at the last Salon?
The newcomer beckoned to the waiter and said: “Bring dinner at once, then take thirty bottles of beer and the ham I ordered this morning round to my new studio, 15, Boulevard de Clichy. We are having a housewarming.”
Monsieur Saval ordered dinner too, and as he took off his overcoat he was seen to be in evening dress. His neighbour had apparently not noticed him, for he took up a newspaper and began to read. Monsieur Saval looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, eager to enter into conversation. Two other young men came in wearing red velvet jackets, and pointed beards à la Henri III, and sat down opposite Romantin.
One of them said: “It is this evening, isn’t it?” Romantin shook hands with him: “Yes, rather, old chap, everyone is coming. Bonnat, Guillemet, Gervex, Béraud, Hébert, Duez, Clairin, Jean-Paul Laurens; it will be a great evening. And the women, you’ll see! Every single actress—of course, I mean those who are not acting tonight.” The cabaret-proprietor, coming up to them, said: “You have a good many housewarmings?” and the painter replied: “That’s right, one every three months, at every quarter-day.”
Monsieur Saval could keep quiet no longer, and said hesitatingly: “Excuse me, sir, but I heard your name, and am very anxious to know whether you are the Romantin whose work I admired so much in the last Salon.” The artist replied: “The very same, sir.” The notary paid him such a neat compliment that it was obvious he was a man of culture; the painter, flattered, responded graciously, and then they started a conversation. Romantin returned to the subject of his housewarming, and described the gorgeousness of the entertainment, and Monsieur Saval asked him about the guests he was expecting. “It would be a wonderful piece of luck,” he added, “for a stranger to meet so many celebrities at once, at the house of so distinguished an artist as yourself.”
Romantin, now completely won over, replied: “If it would give you any pleasure, do come.” Monsieur Saval accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, and insisted on paying both bills in return for his neighbour’s amiability; he also paid for the drinks of the young men in red velvet, and then left the cabaret with the
